Hitches and Knots
by Maiden of the Moon
Summary: It's Sebastian and Ciel's wedding, and everyone is invited! ...everyone. -SebaCiel. Part of the "Bicentennial" universe.-
1. Something Old

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing. Which shouldn't be a surprise, at this point.

**Author's Note: **There's been so much hype for this fic… I really hope it lives up to peoples' expectations! ^^; I plan to have fun with it, anyway~ (MWAHAHAHA.)

**Warnings: **SebaCiel (and CielSeba, heck yeah). Sexual situations/humor. Season II logic, haha. Fail editing. Part of the "Bicentennial" series ("Bicentennial," "Inevitable," "Five Thousand," "Timetable," "Coffee Break," "Cats and Dogs," "Surely Someday," and "Turn"); Takes place immediately after "Five Thousand." Also references "Turn" and Neocloud9's fic, "Hallowed Ground." **_Links to all of these stories can be found on my bio._**

**Dedication: **To my Bicentennial babes, Maddie, Hannah, Sarah, Nene, and Caitlin. LET'S KEEP THE FUTURE-LOVE ALIVE, MY DEARS~

**XXX**

**Hitches and Knots**

**X**

_Something Old_

**XXX**

**9:22 AM**

Sebastian wasn't quite certain when the amusement park that he and Ciel so religiously frequented (no pun intended) was first constructed, and to be honest, he didn't particularly care. But even still, he had to extend his compliments to the crew who'd worked on it—and on the men's room, in particular. This theme park was practically an antique in this day and age, and the lavatory stalls likewise; they must have been built out of lead or steel or industrial-strength aluminum (or whatever it was they used to make rocket ships; the devil couldn't quite remember, right then) in order to withstand the frenzied barrage of fists and knees and backs and fronts that pounded ever-so-rhythmically against the walls and locks of the narrow cubicles. True, from the outside, it sounded a great deal like the building was about thirty seconds away from collapsing in upon itself—a fact that had one or two park patrons fleeing for cover, and kept a good number of others from entering the restroom at all— but that was more of a help than a hindrance. Ciel keened and whimpered and mewled so desperately it might have been their first time; his black-coated talons carved familiar patterns into flaky green paint: jagged scratches reminiscent of scuff marks on ancient hotel floorboards. It was all too much for Sebastian, sensations so carnal and pure… With a clatter and a hollow thud, he pulled them back against the toilet, collapsing atop the seat without missing a beat. At first, the relocation induced a whine; the little one longed for leverage, something to cling to— but then his spine arched and his eyes flew open, head tipping backwards to fall upon Sebastian's shoulder. As Ciel spasmed and hiccupped, rolling along with wave after wave of pleasure, he nuzzled into the crook of his butler's— no, _fiancé's—_ neck, feeling all the warmer and fuzzier inside as the word tumbled around in his brain. And when he murmured it (possibly on accident, possibly on purpose) into the shell of Sebastian's rosy ear, Sebastian's response was a moan and a buck, arms coiling so tightly around his master that he very nearly squeezed all of the air from his lungs. But Ciel was demon, and breathing was more of a luxury than a necessity; he continued whispering and nipping and sighing until Sebastian was done, and they were both left panting atop their makeshift throne. Sebastian recovered first, peppering ticklish kisses up and down the camber of his lord's love-marked throat, smoothing sweat-dampened hair from that precious little face. Ciel, for his part, enjoyed the ministrations with a purr and a snuggle, but upon finding the strength to do so twisted around in his servant's lap to indulge in a proper kiss.

They broke apart with a flutter of butterfly lashes and a silent snap of crystalline saliva.

"You must think you're awfully clever," Ciel teased in a husky hush once his mouth was his own again, toying with the decorative scarf that lay draped across Sebastian's shoulders. It had once been artfully wound around his neck; now it was more like a lasso for his tamer to play with. And play Ciel did. "Coming up with a picture game like that…"

"It wasn't a matter of 'cleverness,'" the butler corrected with a small smirk, briefly brushing his nose against his Contractor's. "It was an issue of necessity. I couldn't very well demean you by perpetuating outdated traditions, could I? Putting jewelry in a glass is rather trite. Not to mention I rather doubt it would work well with tea, and I can hardly imagine what would happen if I took you to some stuffy restaurant and put a ring at the bottom of your Champaign flute."

"Considering my 'age,' and all," Ciel agreed, grinning widely enough to show a flash of ivory fang. "Which do you suppose they'd arrest you for first? Buying alcohol for a minor or for attempting to marry a child?"

"Perhaps as they waffled over which charge was graver, I'd manage to make a daring escape with you. You know, dodging bullets, jumping through windows. That old shtick," Sebastian cheerfully returned, arms still coiled around the boy's skinny waist. "All of which I duly considered, naturally. But then I thought, though narrowly avoiding arrest with you sounded thrilling, it somehow didn't feel like the proper way to ask for your hand."

"Clearly doing it outside of an amusement park bathroom was the classier option."

The elder devil nodded sagely, somehow managing to maintain his somber façade even when his little one giggled and squirmed against the touch of lips upon his chin. "Only the best for my young master."

In response, Ciel smiled— wide and unreserved— his apple cheeks flushed a healthy shade of cherry rose in the aftermath of gratification and delight. Slender fingers continued twisting bolts of plaid fabric 'round and 'round, drawing the servant closer and closer. "Now tell me, honestly," the once-child then drawled, trying to sound bored and nonchalant but succeeding only in suppressing the most obvious of his exuberance. His tone was carefully casual, but his bright blue eyes shone like freshly cut sapphires, full of stars and sparkles. "How long have you been planning this? France was ages ago, and I can't remember the last time we went to the zoo… Three years ago, maybe? Four? That time when William spilled his soda on Ronald, and then Ronald got chased by a hoard of hungry bees. Or did you go out roaming the countryside for farm animals more recently?" The once-boy arched an inquiring eyebrow, straightening his spine to stare imperially down at Sebastian. Ever the little king, he was… even with a bandage slapped across the bridge of his nose. It made Sebastian chuckle.

"I have been thinking on this for far longer than I would care to admit. You'd call me a coward for not doing it earlier," he confessed, almost sounding a touch sheepish. Again, no pun intended. "But I admit, the oldest of the pictures is the one from France. Soon after, though, Grelle and I took a daytrip back to the zoo and—"

Much to Ciel's confusion, Sebastian chose that moment to pause—grin melting into a faint frown of sudden recollection. "Oh, that's right," the butler muttered to himself, one hand slipping from Ciel's hip and instead burying itself in the pocket of his loosened jeans. When the younger demon made a bewildered sound in the back of his throat (well, equal parts bewilderment and disappointment; he did not want to see Sebastian touching anything else, right then), his servant smiled ruefully and offered an explanation. "I'm sorry, Ciel," he apologized as he slid his cell phone open, clicking out of a cheerful notice that read 'Photo message sent!' "I've just remembered… I promised Grelle that I would let her know your answer as soon as you gave it."

"_Did_ you?" Crossing petite arms over his chest, Ciel's eyebrows leapt upward in a show of mocking impudence. "I don't recall ever giving you an answer," he thus retorted, the very picture of haughty insolence.

"Really?" Sebastian velvet voice remained pleasant and conversational; he held the phone to his ear with one hand and rubbed loving circles into the crook of Ciel's thigh with the other. "How odd. I distinctly remember hearing the word 'yes' thrown around a number of times… Quite exuberantly, to boot."

"Yes, well. That was in answer to a… different question, let's say," the little one rebuked lightly, though no less snootily. In reaction to his butler's coaxing ministrations, he spread his legs a wee bit wider, humming in vague approval as he struggled to keep from grinning. "I never used that word, if you'd recall, in direct response to your original query."

The demon made a show of considering this, and in the end was forced to nod in agreement. "Indeed," he admitted, readjusting his grip on the cell, "you did not. Well, the phone is still ringing… if you could please make your decision before Grelle picks up or it goes to voice mai—"

**9:37 AM**

That was always the way, wasn't it? A girl could sit by the telephone all day and all night—painting her nails, reading her magazines, polishing her scythe— and it would never do so much as twitch, let alone vibrate or ring. But as soon as she left to whip up a batch of her famous Longing for DEATH chili for the neighborhood potluck, the call that she'd been waiting for _years _to receive finally came through. It was only by sheer luck that the ravenous roar of Grelle's vegetable cutter faded to a dull buzz when it did; as diced and sliced chunks of peppers, onions, and jalapenos fell to the bottom of the plastic pot, she caught the softest strains of Bon Jovi's "Shot Through the Heart" echoing from her bedroom.

Behind the frame of scarlet glasses, electric green eyes widened. _Sebastian-darling's ring tone_.

Death gods, as a species, were known for their agility and grace—much like many of the other supernatural residents of the realms Above, Below, and Middle. But there were times in Grelle's life that made it clear that her butler-act had been based, to some degree, on personal experience; in her rush to reach her phone, she managed to tangle herself in her own apron (consequently smearing tomato juice all over her face), trip over her beloved Samoyed ("Ow! Cardenio, love, please get the hell out of mummy's way—!"), and nearly broke her elbow when she dove for her bed, almost missing the quilt for one of the frame's four mahogany posts. Panting heavily, quietly grateful that she hadn't accidentally killed herself, Grelle looked up to find her husband watching wordlessly from the jamb of the attached master bathroom. Newspaper under his arm, still tousle-haired from slumber, the sleep pants-garbed Will regarded his wife with his usual expression of affectionate exasperation before closing the door between them.

Grelle decided to ignore that momentary interlude. With an energetic press of a crimson-tipped thumb, she managed to catch the call just before the final strains of _you give looooove, a bad name~ _faded into silence. "Well?" she squealed into the mouthpiece, deciding not to bother with such trivial niceties as standard salutations. Everyone knew that some things were more important than good manners. Gossip, for instance. "Well, Sebastian-darling? Did you ask him? What did he say?" Grelle demanded, spinning onto her stomach and kicking her slippered feet to and fro. "C'mon, c'mon—don't leave a lady waiting! Ooo, I've got goosebumps just thinking about this! Tell me everything, I simply _need _to know!"

Eventually, it occurred to Grelle that Sebastian might actually tell her what she wanted if she'd give him half a second to reply. With difficulty, the reaper bit down on her tongue and swallowed back the barrage of questions clawing at her serrated teeth… but her admirable patience was rewarded by nothing but silence. It would have been enough to infuriate her (after all the help and support she'd shown? How _dare _he ignore her!) had it not been for one little thing: the silence wasn't really silent. No, through the thin veil of static came a quiet, wet smacking and a deep-throated moan… the rustle of clothing and subdued purrs.

Grelle raised a shapely eyebrow as her ruby lips curled back in a leer. "A little soon to be consummating the marriage, isn't it?" she teased, cheerfully dropping her chin in her palm.

That, at least, got Sebastian's attention. His black-satin voice invaded her ear with all manner of devious huskiness, and although she was a happily married woman, the delight in the chuckle was enough to give her vicarious butterflies. "_There is no need to be crude, Grelle,_" the devil corrected with an audible smirk. She could hear the brat in the background giggling, but whether his amusement stemmed from their conversation or from some secretive touch or glance, she didn't know. "_Ciel was merely giving me his answer when you picked up._"

Answer_. Answer_!

Upon hearing the word "answer," the reaper visibly perked, body tensing with nerves and glee as she bounced onto her knees. "And he said yes?" she squeaked, practically jumping on the bed in her uncontrollable enthusiasm. (The only think that kept her from whole-heartedly doing so was remembering her husband's displeasure after she and the not-child had gotten into a rather high-spirited pillow fight, resulting in their need to purchase a new mattress.) "He said yes, didn't he? Of _course _he said yes, how could he not?"

"_Well, since you already seem to know the answer, I suppose there is no need for me to convey it_," Sebastian said amiably, the amusement in his voice obvious. "_If that is all, then, the young master and I have much to… discuss_."

"Oh, he said _yes!_" Grelle cheered, pumping a delighted fist into the air. "Willy!" she shrieked— flinched, thinking apologetic thoughts when both Sebastian and Ciel hissed on the other end of the line— then placed her hand over the cell phone's mouth piece and screamed again: "Willy, the brat said yes! Sebastian-darling and the tiny terror are getting _married_~!"

From the bowels of the bathroom came the sound of William humoring his wife. "Woo-hoo."

"I know, right? Oh, this is so _exciting_!" Grelle sang, removing her palm and cooing into the phone once more. "You sweet, sweet lovebirds, don't even worry about a _thing_. Just leave everything to me, and I will personally see to it that you enjoy the grandest wedding of the millennia!" Deep in the throes of purest happiness, the death god rolled back and forth atop the coverlet, like some sugar-high addict on the floor of a candy shop. "I've already got so many ideas, _ooo_, I just can't _wait _to share them with you! I'll run right over to your apartment now, Sebastian-dear, so we can start discussing all of the necessities~"

"_We can— what?" _For the first time in a long while, Sebastian sounded genuinely taken aback. "_Er, to be honest, Grelle…_" he ventured carefully, as if trying not to alarm or worry the one sitting with him,_ "as much as I appreciated your help when it came to this proposal, I had rather hoped—_"

But Grelle heard none of it: not the tone of disapproval, not the hint to let the subject drop—not even the words themselves, apparently. She was too far gone in her own fantasies to pay attention to anything else.

"Oh, wait, I forgot, I've got some food on the stove, don't I? Silly me," she chirped, hopping off the bed and smoothing down her summer dress. It, too, had been spattered in seeds and juices, but she no longer cared. (Will probably would, though, when he noticed the stains she'd left on the comforter. Then again, both the veggies and the blanket were red; maybe she'd get lucky. Or maybe she'd just have to ravish him that night as an excuse to change the throw. Either would do.) "That'll work out perfectly, though—you two have probably got to get back home, too, don't you? Right. Let's meet at your apartment in forty minutes exactly, shall we? Now, I know it's hard for you two to keep your hands off of each other, but try not to be late! We've got so much to do!" She tittered in a show of elation, so full of pent up energy and eagerness that the tips of her pixie cut danced. "See you then, my darlings! Love you two to _death_~"

**9:49 AM**

_Beeeeeeeeeep._

For a long moment, Sebastian simple stared at his phone—feeling his mouth get dryer and dryer as the ring tone's drone seemed to grow louder. Still seated atop his servant's lap, Ciel cocked his head to the far left, frowning as if to match his fiancé.

"What's wrong? What happened?" the once-earl inquired, plainly puzzled by the abrupt air of gravity and dread that had wrapped itself around Sebastian. Concerned, he reached out and touched the smooth slope of his cheek; the elder devil caught that hand and leaned into it, pressing a fleeting kiss to the base of his palm.

"…you'll find out soon enough," he then sighed. And though he managed to relocate his missing smile, it had already gained a telling trace of weariness.

**10:54 AM**

Although the newly-engaged couple managed to return to their apartment by the deadline that they had so recently been assigned, it took them a good few minutes to actually make it _into_ the house. Not only did general unease keep Sebastian's hand still upon the knob, but so did the sounds of insanity and demolition echoing from inside: shattering and yowls and the scrabble of nails on linoleum, mad barking and general shouts.

"_RRRROW~!_"

"No, please, don't tip—!"

_SMASH._

"Oh, that one was tacky, anyway. Good job, precious~"

"Mrs. Grelle—!"

"…we could always go back to the amusement park," Ciel joked (or maybe he was serious), flinching as another destructive-sounding _bang _resonated from the depths of the suddenly-ominous residence. They didn't even _have _that much in the way of furniture and decorations; what the hell _was_ that? "I'm sure we could forge a happy life there, if we tried."

It wasn't a bad idea. But just before Sebastian had a chance to commit to it, all hell decided to break loose… by way of a black cat crossing his path. Meowing and hissing as if her life (or, at the very least, her virginity) depended upon it, an incredibly unhappy Georgina managed to push her way through the unlocked door, jostled open a fraction by the demon's wavering movements. The ebony streak practically clawed her way up Sebastian's leg in her race to escape from the furry bundle of love that bounded after.

"_Ack—_!"

"_No! _Bad Cardenio!" Ciel scolded, grabbing hold of the puppy's claret collar and wrenching him away from Sebastian's crotch. The smitten Samoyed, however, resisted mightily, attempting to follow the feline up the devil's body with every ounce of strength that it kept locked inside of its fluffy form. Wincing slightly with every other backwards step, Sebastian nevertheless cuddled his precious kitten close to his bosom; master and pet leveled the dog an identical glower, oozing with condemnation and disgust as they helped Ciel shove the poor creature out of the complex hall and back towards their dwelling's entrance. The effort would have been entirely in vain if it wasn't for Finny, who was quick to follow the animals out the door. Though he, thank goodness, did not attempt to shimmy up any of Sebastian's extremities, his emotions seemed to be running just as high as the cat's and the dog's.

"Um, Mr. Sebastian," he muttered, shooting worried glances over his shoulder as if he were somehow able to see through whitewashed wood, "did something happen to make Mrs. Grelle more insane than usual?" Before he'd even finished speaking, he cringed in unspoken remorse for such rudeness (not that Sebastian or Ciel's blank stares encouraged him to do so), and then lifted the whining Cardenio into his arms. "I mean, she just _burst _through the door a few minutes ago—I didn't even have a chance to let her in, you know? And in less time than that, she just… took over the apartment. I'm not sure you want to go in there…"

It was a safe bet, Sebastian thought. He, too, was fairly certain he didn't want to go in there… But he was equally certain that he didn't really have a choice in the matter. Not if he wanted to salvage any of his plans, not if he didn't want to live out the rest of his life in the hallway. Or the amusement park, for that matter. "Oh, save it all—" he cursed under his breath, handing Georgina to a disgruntled Ciel ("Don't give her to _me—_!") before barging through the door.

Ciel heard the muted cadence of a choked gasp, a frustrated growl, and then a muffled snap of "What _is _it with you death gods and sitting on my countertops?" before the inner workings of the apartment faded to white noise. The former earl and the ex-gardener exchanged a long, uneasy glance, made all the more uncomfortable by the high-strung critters struggling in their arms.

"So, um… _ouch_," Finny began conversationally, grimacing when Cardenio's dulled talons bit into the pale skin of his wrist. "What happened to make Mrs. Grelle so… cheerful… this morning?"

"Oh, uh— _freakin_'—! Stop that, Georgina!" Ciel hissed, whapping the cat's pink nose when she began struggling and swiping at the distant dog, inadvertently attacking her carrier, instead. "Sebastian asked me to marry him. And I accepted."

"…oh. That would… er, make sense." Startled, Finny blinked wide, credulous eyes at his once-young master, cheeks gaining a shock of color in surprise. Ciel wasn't quite sure how to interpret this, as he had never truly known what the blonde thought of his and Sebastian's relationship. Though he was under the impression that Finny approved of it, it also seemed to fluster him whenever it was brought up. Maybe because of who Ciel had been, or who Sebastian had been… or what they two had represented during the days of yore. Whatever the reason, it kept the immortal's face an endearing shade of magenta for a long while, even after he smiled and offered a demure congratulations. Cardenio serenaded the well-wishes with a succession of yelps and yaps and playful baby growls, all of which Georgina answered with the scorn of a displeasured noblewoman. And as soon as it started up again, there was no stopping it; the pets' feral bickering escalated from snarls to howls to a deafening squalor in less than a minute, one so earsplitting that even the animals in adjacent apartments began to join in.

Finny and Ciel were finally forced to concede that if they didn't want their neighbors to hate them, they should at least try to stifle the noise by going inside. And upon doing so, it began immediately apparent why the young devil's announcement "made sense:" during their absence, it appeared as if the whole of the kitchen and living room had been remodeled to match a bridal boutique. Rather, a bridal boutique that had recently suffered an explosion of some sort: magazine pages had all but replaced the tasteful wallpaper, flapping in a breeze from an open window; volumes on everything from flowers to food to dresses to gift bags were littered across the floor— some open, some closed, some playing bookmark for other books. There was a small mountain of cakes upon the dining room table, each still carefully packaged in its original box, with a plethora of knives and forks littered about, as if in preparation to scale it. Bolts of raw fabric had seemingly been used to reupholster the sofa and armchairs: linens and tablecloths of all different shades and textures; at least three mannequins had been erected near the television, simultaneously guarding and blocking the screen by way of the ruffles they wore. It was enough to make Ciel want to run away and hide in his room, but he was barred from doing so by a jungle that had virtually sprouted in the foyer; both he and Finny were kept carefully corralled by rows of white and red roses, dangling fuchsias, sprays of diamond frost, rainbows of silken petunias, and a growth of Easter lilies so tall that it almost seemed more like a tree than a flower. With difficulty (and with writhing pets), the pair carefully leapt over as many floral blockades as they could, managing to knock down only one vase of marigolds. (Finny worried aloud that the shorn beauties might be his, but Ciel doubted it. These looked far more plastic in their perfection than Finny's had in his picture of them.) Once Ciel had cleared the last patch of gardenias, he unceremoniously dropped Georgina— who bolted as soon as her paws had touched ground— and charged Finny to lock Cardenio somewhere. Like the coat closet. Or oven. (Finny opted for his room, instead. To each their own, the devil supposed.)

While the blonde busied himself doing that, Ciel, in turn, busied himself trying to find Sebastian and Grelle. Based on the scuffmarks covering the tile, Sebastian had literally dragged Grelle away from whatever she'd been doing in the kitchen— either flipping through brochures or mixing up some drinks or examining a collection of crêpe paper decorations, or perhaps all three at once— and had confined her elsewhere, so they could, presumably, talk. Or shout, if the stifled sounds coming from Sebastian's quarters were any indication.

"I don't understand what the problem is, Sebastian-darling!" Grelle was pouting, the discontent in her tone (much like the words themselves) leaking through the barrier of the closed door. "I'll have you know that I'm the best wedding planner around. Why, did you hear the other death gods rave about _my _wedding? I was the talk of the town for centuries!"

"I'm quite sure it was very popular with the reapers, Grelle, but if you'd be kind enough to recall— a very specific and important demon did _not _like what you did for your wedding," Sebastian pointed out, his voice so low and rushed that even Ciel had a difficult time catching it. Like the child that he hadn't been for centuries, the little one succumbed to the temptation to lean closer to the door, obviously eavesdropping and feeling no shame for it. He was a demon, after all. "And once again, as I've told you, I already—"

"Oh, he was _biased_," the woman interrupted with (Ciel was willing to bet) a flippant wave of her hand. "And he didn't even see the ceremony! He just got his knickers in a knot that I held it in the same church as his aunt's funeral. Seriously. Some people just don't know how to let things go…" A soft ruffling sound, like someone scrubbing at the back of their head. "Besides, I don't think he ever quite understood the reasoning behind that choice. It wasn't out of mali—"

"To be frank, Grelle, even if I tried, I couldn't give less of a damn about your reasons, right now," Sebastian bit out curtly, sounding increasingly irate. "I'm sure your wedding was lovely. And I am sincerely grateful for your assistance in crafting my proposal, and for all of the support you've shown thus far. But this is my wedding to Ciel, and it means a great deal to me—too much to allow you to use it as an excuse to play coordinator."

"But that's exactly _why _I have to do it!" Grelle shot back, undeterred. The click and clack of her modest high-heels was smothered by the bedroom's ivory carpet, but Ciel could still hear her move across the room; he imagined that they'd been debating with one another from across the expanse of Sebastian's bed, most likely to keep the demon from reaching out and strangling the redheaded annoyance that he was stupid enough to call his friend. "Because it means so much to you! Because it has to be perfect! You're a _man_, Sebastian-darling, and matters of romance and _amore_ are things that only a woman can truly understand, let alone bring to life. Why don't you see that I'm helping you? Let me help you, love," she begged, her stubborn slating softening as (it seemed) she clasped his hands in her own. "I swear, I won't go overboard. Oh, don't give me that look— I won't! I know things look crazy right now, but that's just because we're in the planning stages. It will be so tasteful and elegant and fabulous when we're done. And I'll let you and the brat make all of the final decisions. I promise. I really do. Please?"

Silence.

"_Please_?"

More silence.

"_Pretty_ please?" Grelle tried one more time, voice stained with the desperateness of a toddler asking for a second helping of ice cream. Sebastian, in response, released a strained and strangled sigh.

"…even if I say no, you're just going to take over, aren't you?" he droned, sounding wholly unsurprised when the reaper chirped in cheery affirmation. The demon somehow managed to swallow back a groan, but still sounded like a condemned prisoner being led off to the gallows as he grunted a submissive, "Fine."

And that was all of the warning that Ciel had before Grelle came barreling out of the door, screeching her gratitude and joy like a six-year-old who'd just leapt off of Santa Claus' lap. After, apparently, stealing his summer clothes, taking all of the scarlet in her outfit into account… but that wasn't anything new or unusual. Ciel had about a third of a second to gag over the red-and-white heart encrusted jumper before Grelle noticed him, squealed once more, and buried his head in her breasts, spinning him in vigorous circles— much like his beloved cousin once used to.

In fact, there was a lot about Grelle that currently reminded him of Lizzie— and her rambling played a big role in that.

"_Oh, _little brat, aren't you just over the moon? Don't even worry a single, un-conditioned hair on your dry, flaky head! (Honestly, Bassie, you let him go out in public like this? For shame!) Just leave everything to me. I've already contacted the local boutiques and ordered some outfits you can try, and did you see the cakes? We can have a taste-testing party after I whip up some tea. You'll _love _my tea; I've been practicing since the old days~ Maybe I should serve it prior to the ceremony? Just to keep everyone relaxed. Oh! And we'll need to talk participants. It goes without saying that I'll be your maid of honor, of course, but what about a ring bearer? Flower girl? Bride's maids? Best man? Since you're certainly going to have a train, maybe we should ask someone to follow along behind you and carry it? And since your father can't lead you down the aisle, would you rather walk alone or do you have someone in mind to replace him? Oh, and while I'm thinking of it, where shall we host this? It obviously can't be in a church—haha— and city hall seems pretty boring, not to mention you wouldn't be able to wear your own face if you got married there, on account of your age. Maybe we should rent a place? What do you think? No, wait, don't tell me— the amusement park? That would be—oh, but you're too young to get married anywhere, really, aren't you?" Grelle babbled, even-now twirling them 'round and 'round. But somehow, Ciel knew that even if they'd been standing perfectly stationary, he'd still be feeling faintly nauseous.

**11:02 PM**

Very rarely was Ciel intentionally cute.

Of course, in Sebastian's eyes, adorableness was incontestable —it didn't matter what Ciel did or didn't do. He'd always be a charming creature who the demon loved to poke and prod and snuggle, even more so than he did the plump pink pads of Georgina's bitty feet. But more often than not, that charm was unconscious, or even birthed from his heated insistence that he _wasn't _sweet, so be quiet. It was only on days when Ciel most desperately wanted attention (and, of course, didn't feel like verbally asking for it) that he calculatedly amped up the cuteness. Based on the Godzilla-inspired footie pajamas the once-child currently wore, Sebastian was willing to bet today was one of those days.

"…oh dear. This must be serious," the butler chuckled, leisurely eyeing the innocent vision lurking in the doorway of his bedroom. Ciel responded to the gentle tease by poking out his bottom lip, mismatched eyes half-shadowed by the hood which made up the monster's toothless mouth. Sebastian laughed again, gently, as he closed the novel he'd been skimming and set it on his nightstand, opening up his arms. They were hardly empty for long.

"Whatever is the matter, young master?" the elder demon asked once Ciel had settled down, cuddling into the embrace with a wiggle of his rump. (As he did so, the decorative fabric tail flopped contentedly once or twice.) "Did you have another nightmare?"

Face buried in the warmth of Sebastian's stomach, the younger devil snorted. "How can I, when I can't even fall asleep?" he muttered, wrapping lithe arms around his servant's middle. He exhaled deeply— something close to a sigh— and then relaxed a bit more after an equally deep inhale. His efforts to calm down were further assisted by Sebastian, who eased back his hood and began running tender fingers through his silvery locks. "It's not that dealing with Grelle didn't leave me tired… After a whole day of dealing with her at her most hyper, I'm exhausted. But I can't seem to make my brain shut up."

"Nerves?"

"I guess so."

"At the idea of getting married?"

"At _her _idea of getting married," Ciel corrected with a grumble, turning over to gaze upward and into Sebastian's concerned eyes. His head remained in his fiancé's lap, but he un-looped his arms; they fell heavily atop his own stomach, clenching in the jade-and-tan material that they found there. "I dunno, it's… it's hard to explain," he complained, nose scrunching as he struggled to find the proper words. "But I mean, this is supposed to be _our _wedding, right? And the way she's going on about it… it reminds me of Elizabeth, really. All this pomp and ceremony and extravagance that just isn't really our style. Or my style, anyway. And since it _is _our wedding, it should be about _us_ and what _we_ want, not what Grelle thinks would be the most romantic."

"Mmm," Sebastian hummed in agreement, removing the half-moon spectacles that he liked to sport when reading. Not that he needed them; he'd just always liked glasses. "I assure you, my lord, I agree completely. But you know Grelle just as well as I do—when she's got her mind set on doing something, nothing short of killing her will make her stop. And for some reason, I don't think Will would take too kindly to us attempting to murder his wife."

"He might understand where we're coming from," Ciel tried weakly, only half-kidding. It pulled a grin from Sebastian, but still, he shook his head after kissing his master's temple.

"I am sure he would. But we'd still spend the rest of eternity dodging his Death Scythe at every corner. And that isn't exactly how I dream of spending my married life with you. Besides," the devil tacked on in afterthought, as if in some attempt to hearten his charge, "we can still make this wedding about us. We just have to be creative about it."

"And how, exactly, do you propose we do that?" Ciel returned with a bleak scowl, though the expression did soften when Sebastian continued nuzzling against him, whispering innocent kisses down his cheek. "At this point, I doubt Grelle will even let me walk down the aisle by my own power. She'll probably insist on doing it for me, so I don't screw it up."

"…well now. _That _was a horrifying mental image," Sebastian said with a shiver, lip curling back in illustration of his revulsion. "But I'm sure even William would put his foot down before that happened. And if she truly _did_ dare to make such a suggestion, well, you can tell her that I'd refuse to go on with the ceremony. Oh, my lord, my young master, my precious little one," the demon murmured reverentially, bodily lifting Ciel to straddle his waist—eye to eye and nose to nose in the deepest show of sincerity that either could physically muster, "my baby bird Ciel, all I care about is marrying you. Everything else is secondary to that. I don't care if it happens here, or on the moon, or in that grungy bathroom stall— just so long as it's you and me, that's all that matters. I don't want to pretend for a moment that I'm not wedding you—and I don't want you to have to pretend for a moment that you're anyone else. So long as Grelle respects those wishes, we can make du—_mmm…_"

For the second time that day, Sebastian's assurances were silenced by the press of sugared lips upon his own, the lap of a hungry tongue and a sinfully wanton groan. It was such a pleasant way of being cut off, he didn't even particularly mind being interrupted; in any case, it seemed that he'd gotten his message across, and that was all that truly mattered. With an encouraging sort of sound, he allowed his master to have his way: grinding and pressing low, low, low until Sebastian had slid fully down the headboard and lay caged within the embrace of a faux-dinosaur.

"Oh my…" he gasped when Ciel finally broke away, chests heaving in tandem as spidery fingers danced beneath the band of his sweatpants. "Is it the master's intention to share a bed before we have officially tied the knot? How _scandalous_," he taunted, the last syllable hitching on a moan. The mattress creaked and shifted as he willingly lifted his hips, head falling to the side as his master fingered his puckered prize. "What _will _the neighbors think…?"

"Hm. Well, if you're quiet, they won't be any the wiser," Ciel whispered, mouth latching onto the succulent slope of his servant's alabaster throat. A suckle, a nip; Sebastian rolled up into the ministrations, shallow breaths wafting against the child's ear and resounding like a sultriest of pleads. It was nearly as noisy as the rumbling hiss of Ciel's front zipper, tugged downward by large, obliging, eager hands. "And if—rather, _when_—you're not…" the once-earl leered, helping his butler out of his slacks, "they'll probably assume they're living next to a couple of godless blasphemers. And they wouldn't be wrong."

**7:19 AM**

"Alright then! Let's begin," Grelle decreed, clapping her hands as if to garner the attention of wily kindergartners, or perhaps a collection of CEOs at a morning meeting. (Same difference, really.) The only issue being that there was only one person seated with her at the table, so such theatrics were more patronizing that anything else. "Today's agenda is jam-packed with all manner of things to attend to, since you've only given me a few days to prepare the most beautiful wedding in the world."

"Grelle," Ciel groused, glowering down at his cereal as if the manufactured flakes had somehow offended him, "can't this at least wait until I'm done eating?" To demonstrate his disapproval with the situation, the little demon flipped up the hood of his pjs; Grelle was forced to direct her glare at the fangless head of an itty, bitty, sleepy Godzilla. Said Godzilla brought a spoonful of sugar-coated grains to his mouth and chomped down on it, the grinding of his teeth drowned out by the sound of Finny making tea in the kitchen.

"No, this _cannot_," the redhead retorted, today looking very serious in a pleated burgundy skirt and matching suit top. She readjusted her glasses in a way that reminded Ciel very strongly of her husband, and reassessed the clipboard in her hands. "Like I said, we don't have the luxury of time, my dear brat. And what are you so grumpy for? It's not like you're the one doing most of the work." She huffed for a moment, as if looking to garner sympathy from Finny, but the blonde merely offered a stressed smile as he came over with the tea tray and handed her a cup. After all, he was inclined to agree with his former master… But Grelle's emotions were as elastic as ever, and with a dainty sip of her sweetened Earl Gray, she went right back to beaming. "You can just sit there and growl, little monster, if that's what you wish. Or we can have a decent conversation over breakfast and check a few boxes right now, and finish today's schedule all the sooner."

Hunched over his bowl, Ciel snorted and stirred the remains of milk and high fructose corn syrup. "You almost sound like Sebastian, way back when," he muttered, rolling his eyes at the memory. Of course, speak of the devil and he shall appear; Sebastian chose that moment to come strolling out of his bedroom, wrestling to pull a jade green apron over his button-down shirt and dark slacks. He only looked dimly surprised to see Grelle grinning at him, teacup lifted in greeting.

"Sebastian-darling, what do you think?" the redhead posed, swinging her feet in dreamy consideration as the demon wandered past the breakfast table, pausing only to press a kiss to the back of Ciel's head. He then proceeded to feed Georgina, who was being nearly as loud and obnoxious as the reaper. (_Must be something about women in the morning_, Sebastian mused privately, even as he gave his pet a loving stroke.) "I was just about to ask Ciel here his opinion on outfits, but he's being a stubborn little stinker. So we might as well start with you. What do _you _think he should wear to the ceremony?"

With all manner of gravity, Sebastian spared a moment to muse on this—glancing over at his pajama-clad fiancé and standing from his cat-inspired crouch. After a long pause, lips pursed and brow furrowed, he answered with a somber: "…I would suggest clothes."

Finny spluttered into his tea with a noise like a clogged drain; Ciel merely grunted, affecting an attitude just as sober as his servant. "Oh sure," he complained, flopping against the back of his chair as if indulging in an authentic sulk, "take all the fun out of everything, why don't you…"

"Well, we could have a nude wedding."

"It would save on tailoring costs, for sure."

"But would many people come if they were required to be naked?"

"Depends on which definition of 'come' you're using.'"

"_Okay boys_," Grelle snapped, shooting a narrow-eyed glare from one devil to the next, blatantly ignoring the choking Finny. "That's enough. Unless you have a _legitimate _suggestion about what Ciel should wear—"

"Well, there's still the pink dress. It's in the closet. You know the one I'm talking about, don't you, my lord?" Sebastian offered, chuckling to himself as he danced towards the door. This time, Ciel joined Grelle in frowning; the butler only-just managed to dodge the retaliating seat cushion chucked his way. But evade it he did, blowing the once-boy a kiss goodbye as he disappeared into the hall with a wink and a smirk.

"Stupid jerk," Ciel griped as he blushed, settling low in his now less-comfortable seat. He then noticed (much to his horror) the curiosity in Finny's stare… as well as the swirling ideas in Grelle's eyes. "Don't ask," he ordered one, before turning to the other and biting out an authoritative, "_No_."

"Huh? What?" At the sound of the unprovoked chastisement, the reaper started, straightening. For a moment, her countenance was consumed by a burst of confusion; a heartbeat later, one and one made two in her mind. "Oh, no! No! Of _course_ we won't be using that dress," an appalled Grelle agreed, sticking out her tongue in a very mature show of distaste. "Really, do you think I've no class at all?"

Ciel was willing to bet she didn't really want to hear his answer to that. "Well, at least we agree on one thing," he mumbled to himself, but even as he spoke he knew it was all too good to be true; he nearly bashed his own head against the table when Grelle continued with a jovial, "After all, that dress isn't the proper color for a wedding! Now, if it were darker—perhaps a shade of scarlet and burgundy…"

"_Grelle_…!" the petite demon moaned in weak protest, massaging his temples as he shot her a cynical stare. "I don't think you get it…"

"I should _say_ she doesn't," Finny tacked on, sounding almost affronted. He was still moping spat-up tea from his face and the countertops; Ciel wasn't sure how much hope to place in his subsequent statement. "Red isn't the proper color for a wedding dress, either. The young master's gown should be white, obviously. Even _I _know that."

Clearly not much.

"_Finny_!" the little one censured in exasperation, piercing the blonde with an icy glower. "No! It's not an issue of color, it's that I don't want to wear a dress! I'm not a _girl!_" He was starting to regret his choice in pajamas; they worked wonderfully for getting what he wanted from Sebastian, but it was difficult to exude authority and clout when you had a fabric tail attached to your bum, and the booties on your feet were bedecked in spongy claws. "We can discuss wedding outfits if we _must, _but there are some lines I will not let you cross, and that is one of them."

Ciel punctured this statement with a steady glare, ready to continue fighting if need be. But Grelle, to his notable surprise, let the subject go with nothing more than a small shrug.

"Oh… fair enough," she conceded, dropping her pen and clipboard atop the table in favor of lifting her teacup with both hands. "It would be hypocritical of me to argue with you on the subject of clothes… considering all the carping that resulted when I announced what I'd be wearing on my wedding day." Under Ciel's stunned gaze, Grelle rolled her own eyes and sighed, as if still slightly perturbed by all of the initial heckling she'd endured. "Honestly, I can't believe how _surprised _they all were; I wouldn't be _me _if I wasn't wearing my favorite color, you know?" She beamed then, in a gesture of genuine understanding. "We'll simply have to add finding you the perfect outfit to the list. I was already planning on dragging you along when I went dress shopping— the maid of honor has to have the bride's approval, after all! We'll just go hunting for an outfit for you, too, while we're at it. Okay?"

The devil blinked once, slowly. Maybe Grelle wasn't quite as… well, anyway. "…okay," he agreed tentatively, loosening his tightly-laced arms. "I guess that's acceptable."

"Lovely!" the reaper cheered, and in half a second all of her solemnity had been lost in the reemergence of her boundless optimism. It was almost literally dizzying, enduring all of these 180s with her… "In that case, just one more matter to discuss before I let you go to brush your teeth and get changed."

"…and what might that be?" Ciel asked warily, suspicion tensing every muscle in his body as he watched her hop to her feet and clip-clop over to the radio. With a sing-songs sort of hum, she popped open the CD tray and plopped a disk into the player—one that she'd just-then pulled from her purse.

"Well, you have to choose a song, don't you? A special one, for the couple's dance. And possibly to play during the ceremony, too," Grelle reminded, with a pointed beam and flurry of her finger. As the CD player whirled to life, both the demon and the blonde couldn't help but notice how inordinately _pleased _the woman seemed with herself in that instant. It was enough to fill them both with a certain degree of trepidation. "Now, I don't know if you and Sebastian-darling already have a special song—I somehow doubt it— and to be truthful I was _going _to let you and Sebastian-darling make this decision on your own… but then I was rifling through my old CDs and ran across this little song by The Police, and I couldn't help but notice how _perfect _it was for you two~"

…right. This could only end well.

With that as a very dubious lead-in, all three fell silent, allowing the rhythmic thrum of the base-fueled melody to fill the small kitchen. A very smug Grelle leaned closer to the speakers, head in her hands as she bopped a foot along to the tune; Ciel and Finny exchanged sidelong glances as the husky voice of the male soloist began crooning out the lyrics.

"_Every single day… and every word you say. Every game you play, every night you stay, I'll be watching you_."

Finny bit his lower lip, frown deepening. Inside, Ciel echoed that voiceless sentiment, but for the time being kept his expression schooled and vacant.

"_Oh, can't you see you belong to me? How my poor heart aches with every step you take. Every move you make, every vow you break, every smile you fake, every claim you stake, I'll be watching y_—"

"That's quite enough of that, thank you," the young demon said crisply, having sidled over to island with his empty cereal bowl. After depositing his dish in the washer, he spared a moment to unplug the radio, apparently having decided that simply pressing the stop button wasn't dramatic enough to demonstrate his disapproval. Finny, at least, look relieved; Grelle, on the other hand, looked markedly offended.

"Hey!" she protested, face scrunching in objection as Ciel flounced away, fake tail swaying back and forth with every step. "That was unnecessarily rude!"

"And that song was unnecessarily disturbing," the not-boy countered, sitting heavily back down in his chair as his features contorted in an expression of utter disbelief. It was an expression mirrored by Finny, though his rendition swung more towards "scarred-for-life," while Ciel chose to flavor his with incredulity. "A song like that? For a wedding? It sounds like it was written by a stalker!"

"Wh- what?" Grelle gawked, and for a minute she couldn't seem to decide if she wanted to laugh out of genuine amusement, or due to sardonic skepticism. Either way, there was a note of mirth in her retaliation, and it kept her voice breathy and hoarse. "Don't be absurd!" she chided, spinning 'round to face the once-earl with a fist upon her hip. "People used to use this song for their weddings all the time! It's terribly romantic— all about watching out for one another, and always being there…"

"Following them home at night and slitting their throats…" Finny mumbled under his breath, watching his own terrified gaze stare back at him from the bottom of his teacup. Ciel nodded in animated agreement, regardless of whether or not Grelle actually heard his commentary. (It seemed likely that she had, if her mope was anything to go by.)

"You two are just _deranged_!" the reaper huffed, crossing her arms over her ample chest and scowling at the seated pair. "I'm sure anyone else who heard the song would find it indisputable touching!"

**7:39 AM**

"…_I'll be watching you._"

"Ugh. Fuckin' creeper song." Sebastian glanced down at his shuddering coworker at the same moment she turned her glower upon the ceiling, as if trying to bring shame to the radio system that dared project a song that she did not approve of. Not that it mattered; it was barely audible over the clatter and chatter and general hullaballoo of the waffle house. "I hate it when they play the oldies all day."

"Well, if you have enough time to stand around and listen, then you're clearly not doing your job correctly," Sebastian retorted lightly, lifting a large brown tray from the bespeckled girl's splayed hands. In response, his colleague redirected her glare upon the demon, but he brushed it off as easily as he would dust. Madeline was her name, and she was almost always irked at him, for one reason or another—always suspicious, ever since the day he was stupid enough to bring Ciel to the restaurant. (He supposed, in retrospect, it wasn't wise to follow a supposed thirteen year old to the bathroom and then leave their booth suspiciously empty for twenty minutes.) And yet, for as aggravating and unfounded as her irritation often tended it be, it was almost refreshing, in a way… considering all of the mindless, dreamy gawking he endured from the other female employees. "I'll take this. It's on the way to my last table."

For a spell, Madeline looked tempted to snatch the platter back, just to keep Sebastian from doing something that he wanted. But then she reconsidered, realizing she didn't particularly _want _to serve that table… Shops like this always got their fair share of weirdos, so it was inevitable that she should have to deal with some; still, she tried to evade the freaks whenever she was able. And whether she liked it or not, this was a perfect avoidance tactic. "Fine, then. If you really want to. I'll go sweep in the back… and hope someone changes the damn radio station," she added in a grumble, waving a vague goodbye as she wandered off. Sebastian barely paid her any heed as she did so, too distracted by the order upon the tray he'd nabbed. He'd almost missed it, in his rush to keep busy—but then he'd noticed the cloying scent of sugar distinctive to one particular dish Wendell's served: the Honey Bunny. A stack of three buttered pancakes dripping in its namesake, with ears made of graham crackers and facial features constructed of assorted seasonal berries. Normally it wasn't a sight that would faze him, but next to that particular plate was a dish he recognized all too readily: the Funfetti Ice Cream Bonanza waffle set. And when those two orders were made simultaneously…

"…shit," Sebastian whispered, for once not caring about professionalism.

Good thing Madeline wasn't there.

**7:42 AM**

"Dare I ask what you two are doing here?"

Will regarded their server with his usual dark stare (ironic, as always, considering the vibrant gold of his irises), as he readjusted the frames of his glasses with his left hand. His right hand, it seemed, was still sticky with peanut butter residue; he had a number of empty complementary packets scattered beside his napkin roll. "Is that any way to speak to a paying customer, demon scum?" he droned in return, shooting his tablemate a slanting glance. "Especially in _present _company…?"

'Present company,' dressed in an odd combination of skin-tight pleather pants and an overlong black sweater, was busy cackling at his meal, flexing willowy fingers as if greeting the edible rabbit face. Sebastian regarded the juvenile performance with as dry a glance as he was physically capable of producing. "…he may be a big shot amongst your kind, William," the devil intoned flatly, inclining his head in wordless greeting when the ponytailed creature glanced up with a jingle of decorative chains to leer at him. "But to me, he's the same bizarre, nut job mortician as always."

"Oh, Mr. Butler~ Has no one ever told you flattery gets you nowhere?" the Undertaker sniggered, waving a bejeweled hand in a dismissive motion. Then, with equal gusto, he tucked into his pancakes, intentionally dragging the dull knife of his cutlery packet up and down, up and down the decorated porcelain of the plate—as if to imitate the animal's final death-squeal. Sebastian winced at the noise, and half-considered asking him to cut it out, but the customer was always right… sadly.

"Indeed, flattery as an entity does not serve very well as a mode of transportation," the devil agreed, lowering the empty tray to his jutted side and folding his empty fist against his hip. "But apparently it's enough to motivate someone to fly across the Pacific. At least, I _assume _I play into your reason for being here. Why else would you have left your shop? It's been nearly two decades since your last vacation."

The Undertaker snickered as he listened to Sebastian's tired tirade, popping a juicy blueberry into the too-wide slit of his maw. "Ah, that's the thing about the dead: if you leave your post for any decent while, they just pile up, up, up! Never a stop to 'em," the reaper mockingly lamented, licking thin lips that were nearly as white as his teeth. "But you know me, my dear devil. No matter how much I love my patrons, I'm a slave for a good joke. No matter the distance, there are some sights so amusing they simply _must _be witnessed by one's self…"

The pallid worm of that sneer curled higher and higher, nearly splitting that laughing face in two. There was an _intention_ in the unseen, but probing stare that radiated from the chuckling Undertaker— something pointed and piercing. But for once, Sebastian was forced to concede that he'd missed the punch line. "...I am not entirely certain I follow," he scowled, turning from the elder reaper to the younger in a quest for answers. His need for a hint further tickled the mortician; both demon and death god ignored the sharp bark of laughter that resulted, muffled as it was by syrup-drenched breakfast food.

"Every tier of the Other Realms are buzzing with the news," William explained brusquely, carefully slicing his sprinkle-riddled waffles into perfect squares, then decorating each bite with a small globule of his complementary vanilla ice cream. "That the spawn of Asmodeus, Prince of the Second Circle, the devil formerly known as Malphas, is further fortifying his blasphemous covenant and connection to his eternal master, the newly-birthed hybrid abomination, Ciel Phantomhive."

"I…" For a full minute, Sebastian could do nothing but gape feebly. "…_what_?"

"The whole of the supernatural world is in a tizzy about you marrying our little lordship!" Undertaker helpfully translated, tittering like a madman as he bit down on a honey-sodden graham cracker. The overdose of sugar, it seemed, had succeeded in a task long thought by the rest of the world to be impossible: it had somehow made the reaper's hyperactive funny bone all the more oversensitive. He could barely stop giggling, now—not even to spit out a simple sentence. "Heard it through the grapevine, as it were—heeheehee! We death gods are in contact with all sides, you know; gossip has been flying about the two of you since yesterday morning! Why, I just recently had a long chat with Gabriel about how nice it is to see you settling down… He remembers you from when you were just a—a wee thing— _pfffffft_!" Whether the mental image of a baby Sebastian was too much for the mortician to handle, or he simply couldn't contain himself after processing the look of shock on the face of the demon before him, nobody could say. It didn't really matter. When Undertaker was no longer fit to spill the beans, Sebastian turned bodily towards Will, jaw clenched and lips twitching as he regarded the suited reaper.

Rather than feel at all threatened, however, William just shrugged. "You told my wife," he reminded dully, gingerly lifting the first bite of his breakfast to his waiting mouth. "You really should have expected as much. Idiot."

It took every ounce of Sebastian's not-inconsiderable willpower to keep from smashing the dishful of waffles right into the reaper's arrogant face. But succumbing to that temptation would likely get him fired, and that was something he couldn't afford—not if he wanted to keep his nice apartment and collection of George Clooney DVDs. In a rather vain attempt to calm himself, the devil sucked in a steady breath, mentally reassuring himself that this was not the end of the world. Just because (apparently) every single paranormal creature assigned to Earth had been made bitingly aware of his personal affairs, didn't mean that would change anything. He didn't even personally know a good lot of them, and of those he did, well, he'd just have to reiterate to Grelle that they wanted their wedding to be a small, _private _affair. And if that decision offended any of their acquaintances, big deal. They were demons. That was their prerogative.

Even still. Sebastian suddenly found himself feeling very drained, very bothered, and very much wishing for a tall Bloody Mary. Which really wouldn't do, seeing as his shift had only just begun. And speaking of…

"I have other tables I must attend to," the demon eventually managed, in a voice somehow torn between anger and weariness. It was an emotional cue that the Undertaker either deliberately ignored or failed to pick up on (it was sometimes hard to tell with him), and waved the demon a perky farewell. "Seeing as I've been your friend for so very long, I do hope I merit an invitation," he cackled when Sebastian spun away, and—undeterred—continued yammering even after the devil tromped dutifully on towards his next collection of customers. "And I wouldn't be surprised if I ran into any more familiar faces, if I were you, heehee~"

Despite himself, Sebastian snorted. _Right_, he thought surreptitiously, pulling out his notepad and the pen behind his ear as he approached the final booth in his section—the far back corner near the bathrooms, half-hidden by the sheer mass of clientele. _More familiar faces. Well, it's a good thing that neither Ciel nor I keep much in the way of friends. I can hardly think of anyone else who'd see our marriage as more than an interesting conversation starter._ With some effort, he bit back a bitter sigh, allowing the white noise of the waffle house to wash over him as he submissively made his way into the bowels of the shop.

"—and then I said to him, I said—"

"—bitch thinks she's so tough, you know? So—"

"—want juice, Momma! No, not milk! I _hate_ milk! I won't—"

"—pass me the syrup, dear? No, the maple—"

"—an I have the strawberry waffles, please?"

"You can have whatever you'd like, sweetheart," the child's caretaker returned with a smile, settling herself comfortably against the adjacent wall. There was something in the tranquility of the reply that niggled at Sebastian's ear; he glanced up, and the first thing he noticed was a waterfall of white. Long, silvery hair that had been swept into a low ponytail, resting against the curve of the young female's throat and spilling down her side in a casual sort of way: like a mother who didn't have much time to care about her appearance. Dressed in a blouse of lilac cotton and an airy, full-length skirt, she looked up in time to see Sebastian stop dead in his tracks—eyes nearly as wide as the platter that had slipped out from underneath his arm, falling with a _clang_ atop the checkered floor. The sound caught the attention of the other in the booth, a little boy too tiny to be seen over the back of the seat. With a scramble of flailing limbs, a head of rumpled brunette tresses popped up over the lime green vinyl, framing a pair of wide, hazel eyes.

He stared at Sebastian. Sebastian stared at him. The woman stared at Sebastian. Sebastian—a believer in equal treatment of the sexes—stared at her, as well.

"…hello," Hannah then greeted, genial and relaxed, as she turned her sunny beam upon the flabbergasted Sebastian. "We'd like a strawberry waffle set, a Spring Fling waffle set, one coffee, one apple juice, and four wedding invitations, if you please."

**XXX**


	2. Something New

**Disclaimer: **I own a really awesome Kuroshitsuji mug. I love it a lot. I'm drinking tea from it right now. But I don't own the series. Oh well. (Mmm, tea~)

**Author's Note: **So my original intention was to finish the rough draft of chapter three before editing and posting chapter two, but work has been draining all of the life and energy out of me… meaning I haven't gotten much writing done. And keeping a finished chapter waiting on my laptop seemed silly, taking that into account. In any case, there will likely be a delay between this chapter and chapter three; hope that's okay with y'all. ^^;

Also, many thanks for the sweet reviews, my dears! I want to shout-out especially to **Madam Arachne** for taking the time to leave me such a detailed comment. I love those! :'D

**Warnings: **SebaCiel (and CielSeba). Part of the "Bicentennial" series ("Bicentennial," "Inevitable," "Five Thousand," "Timetable," "Coffee Break." "Cats and Dogs," "Surely Someday," "Turn," and "Bouquet."); Takes place immediately after "Five Thousand." Season II logic, haha. Fail editing. **Sexual themes.**

**XXX**

**Hitches and Knots**

**X**

_Something New_

**XXX**

**7:46 AM **

"Oh, don't look at me like that," Hannah murmured sheepishly, taking a long drag of the cigarette that she held between two dainty fingers. The perfect shell-pink of her nails invoked a small spark of envy; Sebastian did tire of questions about the 'black polish' on his own. "I know it's a bad habit, but we're all entitled to them." With an airy sigh and a ring of silvery smoke, she leaned against the cleanest patch of red brick she could find, lodged somewhere between the "employees only" door and the black-topped, back lot dumpsters. One arm nestled beneath the round of her bosom and the other resting on the jut of that wrist, she tapped a stream of off-white ash into a nearby puddle of sludge, shooting Sebastian a sidelong glance. "And of course I never do it in front of the boys."

Despite these reassurances, Sebastian's glower did not soften. Thinking back, it _did _seem rather unlikely that his disapproval was related to the physical wellbeing of the Macken boys and statistics about children's health and air pollution. "If you think my expression has anything to do with your masochistic desire to ruin your lungs, you are sadly mistaken, I am afraid," he hissed, curling five tense fingers around the banister of the emergency exit. Though the other devil had given Sebastian no reason to be suspicious (except for, you know, the whole stealing-his-young-master-and-allowing-the-Trancy-heir-to-posess-him thing from a few centuries back), he made a point of keeping those slimy metal bars carefully between them. Just in case. "Honestly, I couldn't give less of a damn about your lungs, or the lungs of those _children_—especially since all _three _of you are supposed to be dead!"

"You mean four," Hannah corrected calmly, a small smile playing across her painted lips. Sebastian nearly choked on his own horror.

"_Claude _is alive, too?"

"Well, why wouldn't he be?" The former maid seemed genuinely baffled by her companion's open-mouthed amazement. The former butler, in turn, was genuinely baffled by the extent of her obvious brain-damage. Perhaps one of those falling rocks had hit her head a bit too hard…

"'Why'? Oh, I don't know," the demon returned with a scathing snarl, wildly waving the hand that wasn't currently leaving dents in solid iron, "perhaps because I _stabbed him through the heart with the demon sword_?"

How quickly we forget… Hannah dropped a curled fist into her palm, as if only just recalling an important memory. (As if in parody, Sebastian's forehead _also_ reacquainted itself with a palm.) "Oh yes… alright, yes, you _did_ do that," the buxom devil conceded with a brisk nod of agreement, guilty grin firmly in place. She seemed a bit loath to admit it, but history was history; she tossed her cigarette butt into a mess of spilt soda, stamped it out, then scraped her heels clean on the concrete. "I suppose I might have been somewhat… deceptive… in my descriptions of the Leviathan's powers..."

'No shit' seemed the choicest response to that, but Sebastian held himself to higher standards.

"So it was a lie, then, that wounds dealt by that blade will never heal, and that all souls cleaved by it are destroyed?" the demon guessed dully, allowing his chin to flop unceremoniously atop his arms. It was a rather undignified position, taking into account the height of the handrail, but he was a bit too preoccupied to care about how silly he looked, right then. So what if his rump was popped out like a cheap whore's? Who cared if his bottom lip stuck out like a five-year-olds? Did it really matter that he sounded like a toddler mere moments before a tantrum? He was too busy processing how basic truths in his life were really lies in disguise. Claude Faustus was alive. So was the little blonde he called master. Next he'd be told that giant crabs had begun attacking the city, and that there was a boogie man vacationing in his closet.

Hannah, at least, had the good graces to look apologetic, even as she gently berated him. "You can't honestly believe that I would have told you, my enemy, the full truth," she pointed out, rummaging through her purse for something. (A tube of lipstick, Sebastian soon discovered.) "But because of what we are, neither could I tell a blatant lie. I did mention, if you'd be kind enough to recall, that no attacks are fatal to a demon. And that's the reality of the situation, even with Leviathan." With a bored sort of nonchalance, she opened the extracted gloss and smoothly applied it, digging out a makeup mirror to double-check that she hadn't made a mess. After smacking her lips, she slid both accessories back into their respective pouches. "A wound inflicted by the Leviathan _will _never heal… provided the sword remains lodged in that wound. And a soul cleaved by it _would _be destroyed… but we both know that the soul isn't something you can _assault_, per say. You punctured Claude's internal organs, but not his soul."

Sebastian snorted. "Cheap loopholes."

"Like you're one to judge. I heard about the Jack the Ripper case."

He couldn't argue that.

"…look," Hannah eventually murmured, shooting a fleeting glance in the sulking demon's direction, "if it makes you feel any better, it took _ages_ for Claude's injuries to heal themselves. We laid together in the rubble and wreckage of the Isle for… goodness, decades, at least. But it gave us time to talk, if nothing else."

"Bully for you. Now, if this is the part where you monologue about what you lot have been up to 'til this point, you can just skip—"

"What you did changed him, Sebastian. What Alois did changed him. So much devotion, so pure and heartfelt… It wears on us, you know. Shapes us. Claude eventually began to miss that affection, as well as the one who showed it," Hannah continued, lacing her fingers and staring dreamily at the sky above the alleyway. (Sebastian, in turn, rolled his eyes and checked his watch; he only had fifteen minutes for a break, after all.) "It wasn't so bad for me, since I had both Alois and Luca inside, alive and intact… Well, as 'alive and intact' as two souls can be without bodies, I suppose. But still, I could understand Claude's loneliness to an extent— it's like a letter versus a visit. It's wonderful to be able to speak with a person, but it's not the same as being able to hold them, or kiss them, or watch them sleep at night."

"Something I'm sure the both of you are very well-versed it, being the creeps that you are," the devil muttered under his breath, fully slumped over the railing, now. The stink of moldering waffles, egg shells, and mixed syrup filled his nostrils and clung to his hair. …actually, there was a good chance that more than just their stink was doing that. Dammit.

"You'll remember, I'm sure, that I was able to attach my master's soul to Ciel Phantomhive's body, yes?" Hannah continued, either so lost in her own reminiscing that she didn't hear her companion's scathing commentary, or so determined to tell her story that she didn't care to acknowledge it. It didn't really matter which; Sebastian was having her past explained to him whether he liked it or not. "Since I hadn't digested either Luca or Alois' essences, I was able to replicate that process… only using different vessels, of course," she tacked on with a glib little laugh, as if this were all one, big, lighthearted joke. And no, it didn't bother her that Sebastian refused to see the humor in it.

"I work as a nurse when out of Contract," Hannah informed him matter-of-factly, stretching her arms above her head with a happy purr and a crack of bones. (Maybe if he broke her neck, that would shut her up for a while…) "I specialize in caring for sick children. Eternity gave us ample time to wait for patients who bore striking resemblances to our lost masters. In 1912, during the flu pandemic, I found the first: an orphan boy keeled over on the side streets of New York City. Petite, young, blonde hair, blue eyes… fitting for me to find a body for the elder brother first, don't you think?" She beamed engagingly, as if to encourage a reply. For her efforts, she earned a grunt. It was enough. "After making sure there was nothing else physically wrong with the corpse, I inserted his highness's soul and memories, then bestowed upon him immortality, just as I had Ciel Phantomhive. The only side-effect is a tendency for my poor highness to catch the sniffles." The thought pulled a titter from Hannah's quirked lips, as if frequent bouts of snot and sneezing were attractive qualities in a boy. "Luca cried and cried, of course; my stomach was upset for weeks. He so hated being separated from his brother again… But I found a body for him a few years later— the victim of domestic abuse. He hadn't even completely died yet, the original owner of that body. I felt right awful for the poor dear… I held him and tried to comfort, I truly did, but it was too late for him. I ate his soul and replaced it with Luca's, and that was that. I thought about giving him a few years to grow before turning him into a demon, as well—but the world is such a frightening place, isn't it? Anything could have happened, and I might not have been able to save him, if that body were to get in any trouble. I regret that he must face forever as a five year old, but… he is soldiering through, and admirably at that." The pretty devil sighed once more, but it was a sound saturated with pride—a mother's love for her babies, cloying and saccharine. Sebastian fought the urge to vomit, and not just because he was fairly certain he'd gotten a head full of refuse juices.

"How wonderful for your makeshift family," the deadpanned demon drawled, speaking mostly to his own belly. (He was a little afraid of standing upright, now.) "It's so lovely that you were able to resurrect the brats, only to abandon them at tables in random restaurants and… presumably whatever woodland hovel or spider-infested den you call home, or wherever it is you left Alois, since he's not here with you."

"…'left?'"

Hannah blinked owlishly, looking at Sebastian as if she'd only just realized how stupid he actually was. A fair assumption to make, taking into account how little attention she'd truly been paying him over the past few minutes. "Don't be ridiculous. Of course I didn't _leave _my master anywhere. After all, Alois is the one who insisted that we drop by—usually we're enjoying ourselves on the beaches of Brazil at this time of year. No, when I heard from Baalberith that you and Ciel Phantomhive were getting married, Alois is the one who insisted that we attend. He didn't want to miss his best friend's wedding."

She shrugged off the onslaught of Sebastian's stare, as if the dagger of his gaze amounted to nothing more than a few pins and needles. "That's what he said," Hannah said defensively, waving her hands as if to show that they were clean. No dirt on her, as it were. Or trash can rubbish. "And while he sends his best wishes and said he'd love to catch up with you later, he didn't particularly feel like making a pit stop for waffles. So he and Claude decided to—"

_That _caught Sebastian's attention. With no regard for whatever grossness might have congealed upon his forelocks, the devil straightened with a snap of his spine and a clench of his fists. The whole of the banister whined in protest, molding around his fists like putty or clay. "_Claude _is here, too?"

Hannah was undoubtedly questioning Sebastian's mental capacities, at this point. (That wasn't fair; _she'd_ been the one barraged with boulders!) "Well, _obviously_," the she-devil intoned, brow arching in incredulity. "Why wouldn't he be? I told you that he was alive and that we four live together. Isn't it only _natural_ that he should decided to make this trip with us? Especially considering your history?"

A logical argument. But logic had never amounted to much when dealing with the Trancys, the family of dysfunctional psychopaths. Obsessed, dysfunctional psychopaths. Obsessed with _his _young master, dysfunctional psychopaths.

Nearly as green as the dumpsters and their contents, Sebastian nevertheless managed to grace Hannah with a legitimately threatening growl: fangs distended, pupils slit, talons sharpening. Whether or not her bowels were full of firearms, it was enough to make her flinch. After all, even the Leviathan wouldn't do much damage to the darkness— or to the undulating shadows in the devil's command, slithering like serpents from his body and writhing towards her own.

Well. So much for a friendly hello.

Sebastian hissed a final warning when Hannah once more twisted his way, gaze as bright as embers as he forced a single question through his clamped and grinding teeth: "_Where. Are. They._"

**7:53 AM **

"Right, if we're gonna do this, we ought to do this properly."

"…shall I break out the party poppers?"

"No... No, not yet. We'll use those for the 'congratulations' portion of our visit," the blonde pre-teen decided, waving a dismissive hand after a moment of deep consideration. In response, the tall, bespectacled man who stood beside him slid the multicolored tubes back into his magenta fanny pack, strapped around his jean-clad hips. He then awaited further instruction, standing as prim and properly as was possible for someone wearing a magenta fanny pack. On his right, having clambered atop the base of some tasteless piece of "decorative" modern art (this particular sculpture depicting a ring split down the middle; how creative), the boy—or not-boy, as it were— frowned a thoughtful sort of frown, kicking his sandaled feet back and forth. "No, Claude, the first thing to keep in mind is that this is a _surprise _visit. So we need to surprise Ciel. And that means he can't spot us first, you know? We need the element of… um…"

"Surprise?" Claude provided helpfully, earning an appreciative grin from his charge.

"Yes, exactly!" Alois cheered, clapping his hands together. "And to that end, I thought the mall would be a good place to go to find a proper disguise. Something more—" fingers wriggled, as if trying to pluck the proper phrase from thin air— "_full bodied_ than vampire teeth, and cleverer than a top hat and cape. Perhaps a little less conspicuous than a maid's outfit, too, taking the era into account." With that plan firmly in place, the once-child jumped from his perch and landed with the grace of a feline, all smug smiles and perfect balance. To make things look even more visually dramatic, he embellished this leap by simultaneously pulling a pair of dark shades from his overall pocket, and slid them gracefully onto his face. Like James Bond, he fancied. From Russia with love, and all of that. "Glasses on, Claude," he encouraged as he fully straightened, surveying the sea of cars that stretched out before them. Windshields glinted, chipping veneers rusted, shrill alarms whined… In a world as small as this, it didn't seem unlikely that one of those very vehicles had driven his unknowing best friend to this exact shopping center, head full of dreams that matched his own: to find an outfit with which one might 'dress to impress.' And to that end… "They'll have to do as our temporary disguises. At least until we find _better _temporary disguises. Maybe we should go from glasses to wigs, then wigs to masks, then masks to costumes, then costumes to outfits for their wedding."

A beat.

"You know, sir," Claude ventured coolly, not yet making a move for his glasses. (After all, technically, he was already wearing a pair.) "I cannot help but think that finding costumes is something of a waste of our time. I sincerely doubt that Ciel Phantomhive is expecting to see us as it is… Purchasing disguises seems rather redun—"

Alois snapped him a glare as cold as baby-blue icicles. "_I said glasses _on_, Claude." _

"…yes, your highness." The butler sighed, and from his convenient little pack retrieved a set of novelty spectacles, complete with shaggy faux moustache and bushy brown eyebrows. Alois had chosen them specifically for him, of course. It was at times like this that Claude was fairly certain that he had yet to be forgiven for that whole 'murdering his master' shtick. Some people… Regardless, he dipped into a shallow bow and slid the plastic rims up the bridge of his nose, pressing them flush to his more respectable eyewear. "Temporary disguise in place, Alois."

"Good boy," the blonde praised, whipping a bone-shaped cookie from the pouch on his chest and tossing it carelessly at his servant. The biscuit hit Claude square in the forehead, bounced off, and was immediately attacked by a flock of pigeons who— like most scavengers— waited in mall parking lots for just such an occasion. Oblivious to the storm of feathers (as well as the stray fat bird who randomly decided to take up residence in Claude's hair), Alois pointed dramatically towards the revolving doors of the entrance, as if in homage to Washington and his trip across the Delaware. This allusion was made all the more effective by Claude lifting him up by the pits and carrying him forward, as if some sort of ballerina. "Now, to build our new disguises from the bottom up and inside out!" the blonde screamed over the deafening squalor of ravenous birds, wings flap-flapping and scaly feet scrabbling. "Claude!"

"Your highness?"

"You know where to go! Olé!"

**8:37 AM**

"I am not coming out."

"Oh, I think you 'came out' a long time ago," Grelle murmured mindlessly, shifting through the colored hangers that had been lined along the bargain rack. For politeness's sake, she spared a glance in Ciel's direction, but it hardly mattered—he was currently cowering inside one of the boutique's many changing rooms, hidden behind a curtain of red velvet. All along the bordering walls, headless mannequins were dressed in frills and ruffles and mesh… and not much else. Their off-white bodies were haloed in a rosy pink glow, thanks to the mood lighting set by the staff. A little darker, a little sultrier, a little more mysterious… after all, Victoria was a lady with a secret.

And at that moment, the secret was that a smiling grim reaper had forced her young devil-friend into a gauzy piece of lingerie.

"What do you _mean_, there's nothing more to this?" Ciel had choked when he'd asked for the next layer of clothing, face contorting into an expression of embarrassment and horror. Like some sort of tropical turtle, he'd immediately retracted his poking head, pulling it back behind the scarlet drapes.

"What on earth made you think that there _was_?" Grell had countered, just before finding herself distracted by the articles on sale. She'd been thinking about invested in a new chemisette… something made of satin and boasting a gossamer trim. Ooo, and here was a lovely claret number. She folded Ciel's clothes more neatly over her arm and checked the price tag on her item of interest. "You didn't like anything at David's Bridal—not even the black dresses I let you try on."

"I _told _you—I don't want to wear a d—!"

"Well, you didn't like the tux, either," she sniffed in interruption, frown deepening as she pushed the camisole far to the left, along with the other pieces she'd rejected. On _sale _for $50? For a few scraps of translucent fabric? Ridiculous. She'd just keep sleeping naked. (Which, now that she thought of it, was probably sexier, anyway.) "So I assumed that the issue must be that the outfits we were looking at were too conservative for your scandalous tastes."

Ciel made a frustrated sound—something between a snarl and a scream— as the hangings rolled and waved in fury. Grelle imagined that he was probably stamping his little stockinged feet, too, like the child he swore up and down that he wasn't. "Just because I don't jump on the first few full-length outfits that I see, doesn't mean I'd rather dress as a whore!" he snapped, pacing in tight circles like some sort of caged animal. Which he almost was, really. "No, I take that back—not even a _whore _would go out dressed like this, for work or otherwise! This isn't an outfit, it's just underwear!"

With a dramatic clatter of rings on a rod, Ciel pushed back the screen and glowered at Grelle, hand outstretched and straining for the street clothes that she'd stolen. But the pretty reaper refused to surrender her cloth captives, instead holding the khakis and retro "Flipper" t-shirt hostage behind her back as she surveyed the blushing demon. Her head tilted in consideration, thoughtful gaze sliding up and down. Her free hand fingered the rims of her glasses, sliding them down her nose a millimeter or two so as to peer over the plastic frames. Her lips pursed, then parted when she'd finally formulated an opinion.

"…you _do _look good in red," she decreed, nodding in approval at the sight before her. She had decorated the demon in a lacy thong of a cherry hue, made to match the garter belt that had been corseted around his willowy waist. The elastic straps that dangled down his thighs were a bit superfluous when one was using nylon leggings, but Ciel had attached the clips just the same, if only to feel like he was wearing something more substantial. Because the cold (and drafty) truth was, he wasn't wearing much: the only other accessory had been a choker of a crushed crimson material, embellished with a large bow and a dangling, heart-shaped crystal. In hindsight, the devil wasn't entirely sure why he'd decided to humiliate himself further by wearing said necklace, as well… but at the time, it'd been nice just to feel another piece of fabric against his skin. "I think we should buy it. After all, red is the color of passion and love! What could possibly be more appropriate for a wedding?"

Ciel leveled her a flat glare. He wasn't the only one doing so; a number of individual customers had caught sight of the underage boy in dubious attire and were beginning to whisper about his supposed caretaker. The not-boy half-hoped someone would call security. "Something involving _pants_, perhaps?" he nevertheless suggested wryly, rubbing his thighs together in a squirmy show of awkwardness. When Grelle's only response was a gracious chuckle ("Oh, my dear brat, you _kidder_~"), Ciel half-considered leaving the cloistered world of the dressing chamber and physically attacking the reaper, if only to rip his slacks and top from her evil, evil grip… but he stomped on that idea when the AC wafted against his second set of cheeks, sending a chill up his spine. Oh yes. His backside (as well as most of his front-side) was currently on display, and the former was hosting a number of fresh, suspiciously-shaped bruises. Bruises that he didn't particularly want to let the rest of the store see, considering the shoppers present already seemed to suspect that he was the victim of some kind of child abuse.

"But hmm, now that I think of it," Grelle continued once her giggles had subsided, tapping a manicured nail to the round of her chin, "I think there is some room for improvement. Or personalization, as it were. Now, what are we missing…"

"A top?"

"No… no, I was thinking more along the lines of… ah, yes!" The death god gave a gleeful snap of her fingers, pensive expression melting instantaneously into one of flagrant self satisfaction. Ciel was almost afraid to hear what her crazy little mind had come up with. And he had every right to be. "_Cat ears_."

The little one sucked in a noisy breath. He did not allow it to escape as a hiss. Instead, he forced the oxygen down and his stiffened shoulders with it, allowing a beat of silence to pass between them as he tried to compose himself. (It was, understandably, difficult to find any form of composure in his current situation.) "…cat ears," he then echoed, voice strained, as his lengthening talons ground into the base of his palms. "Your answer is… cat ears."

"And a tail," Grelle chirped, as proud of herself as if she'd just cured cancer, or discovered gravity. Ciel fervently wished for an apple—or anything else, really—to chuck at her grinning head. "That choker looks just like a collar, so why not make it a theme? Sebastian-darling would just lap it up~"

…there were so many things wrong with the resulting mental image that Ciel wasn't entirely certain he could properly convey them all with words alone. But taking into account what he and Sebastian had agreed on last night (that they didn't want to spend eternity being chased by a furious Will), he somehow managed to redirect his fury from violence to discourse. Scathing discourse, perhaps. But it was either that or sticks and stones. (Or mannequins and hangers, since Ciel was a believer in using his surroundings to his advantage.) "_Grelle_," he forced through clenched teeth, somehow managing to make the bubbling irritation in his tone sound more like vague annoyance, "I may not like you all the time, and you may have a tendency to act like a ditz, but I know that, deep down, you're a smart woman. And because you are, I am only going to say this _once_." A deep breath; Grelle had the courtesy to lean attentively forward, curiosity written all over her innocent features. In preparation, Ciel's lashes closed lightly… and then scrunched along with the rest of his face, as if to keep his eyeballs in place in the wake of his verbal explosion. "_I AM _NOT_ MARRYING SEBASTIAN IN A THONG AND CAT EARS!" _he screeched, the diamond bauble on his breast bouncing as he violently shook his head, just in case the sounds weren't enough to communicate the entirety his message.

And the message got across, alright. But it was the wrong message.

"Marrying Sebastian?"

And it was transmitted to the wrong party.

With another metallic rattle, the drapes from the fourth dressing room over slid open wide, revealing a second little boy all done up in hosiery and intimates. A dark shade of salmon with trimming done in burgundy, the front and back of his panties were held together by silk ribbons, which stood out prettily against the pale of his hips. Rather than a belt, two gauzy garters kept his tights securely in place, and were decorated in pearls to match the whiteness of said pantyhose. Compared to Ciel, he was short one pretty necklace, but instead had been fitted in a flattering ribbed bodice, which shaped his lithe body from underarm to waist. For the first time in his life, the demon was almost _jealous_ of the one wearing the corset—at least he was more covered.

Then Ciel truly registered the voice. And the face. And the trickster's grin, and the light blue eyes, and the two bare arms spread wide in welcome, coming closer and closer as the not-stranger barreled down upon him, squealing all the while.

"Ciel! We found you early!" Alois shrieked, running towards the Phantomhive earl like a lifeguard on the beaches of _Baywatch_. Behind the blonde—still lurking in the changing stall, hands curled around a camera and face covered in artificial hair— an appreciative Claude watched the energetic reunion, never having stopped snapping pictures. He may have muttered something along the lines of, "weren't we shopping for disguises in order to _avoid_ being found out early?" but no one heard him.

No one could hear anything over the sound of Ciel's ear-piercing scream.

"_ALOIS TRANCY? WHAT THE FLYING FUCK— NO, GET AWAY FROM ME! DON'T TOUCH ME! GRELLE! GRELLE! HELP ME— ACK!_"

"Ciel, don't think you can hide behind those curtains now—I saw you! I know you're in there! Come out, I know you've missed me!" Alois sang, happily attempting to wrestle the drapes open—then giving up and attempting to crawl under them—then tittering coyly when he wound up with a foot in the face. "Woaaaaaah, you were right Claude! That feels _heavenly_, heehee~!"

Ciel made a number of noises that no collection of human letters could ever properly represent. And so the struggle raged, with two little demons ripping and pulling and tearing and twirling, one butler quietly muttering about his future blog post, three store employees calling up mall security on their walkie-talkies, and a reaper quietly contemplating Alois Trancy's lacy rear, having noticed the "50 Percent Off" sticker that had been slapped across its tag.

"… you know, I think I like that outfit _better_," she said to herself, smiling as Ciel released another high-pitched wail.

**9:02 AM**

"A toast! To mall security guards not being nearly as difficult to bribe as real cops," Grelle sang, lifting her Orange Julius high into the grease-scented air. All around the unusual foursome, families and friends chatted and laughed at wobbly checkered tables, eating fat-filled snacks and early lunches before wandering back to finish whatever shopping they'd left undone. Though the food court was surprisingly busy for as early as it was, there was still plenty of space to provide some degree of privacy; the three devils and one death god were chairs away from anyone else, as well as half-hidden behind a jungle of synthetic ferns. When Grelle, Alois, and Claude lifted their Styrofoam cups, no one else was able to see them over the spiky leaves.

Ciel, of course, did not touch his glass. He sat, arms crossed, as far away from the rest of the table as was physically possible without actually moving to a different one, which Grelle wouldn't allow. ("Why are you being so _rude_?" she'd demanded when they'd stood in line together at the Dairy Queen, shooting her temporary charge a disapproving glance from over her shoulder. Ciel hadn't responded, too busy glaring at the newcomers from around the bell of her skirt, hiding like a five-year-old would behind his mother. When his silence persisted, she'd sighed, prized his hand from her dress, and took it in her own; she then suggested that Claude do the ordering while they found a place to sit. "Ordering is _my _job," Alois had corrected with a snicker, winking at Ciel. Ciel had growled. And then Grelle had dragged him away and given him a stern talking to.) As the others lowered their drinks and began enjoying them, he likewise refused to join in; instead, he listened stoically as Alois explained to Grelle why he wasn't dead, as well as why he hadn't made their presence known before.

"I mean," the blonde said between swallows of smoothie, swinging his feet cheerfully back and forth as he exchanged smiles with his fellow tablemates, "I guess we really should have dropped by earlier, huh? So it was less of a shock. But even though Claude has seen the error of his ways— _haven't you, Claude?_"

Claude's paused in his exuberant sucking. "Yes, your highness."

"—I suppose I was just a little nervous. I'm kinda possessive, you could say." Alois giggled in a demure, endearing sort of way. Grelle nodded vigorously, always the theatrical one, as she murmured nonsensical noises of understanding. The once-child licked a droplet of Orange Sunrise flavoring from the corner of his mouth with a seal-less velveteen tongue. "But when I heard that Ciel and Sebastian were getting married, I said to myself—I said, Alois, it's time to put up or shut up. I'd always insisted that I trust Claude, but I'd never given him a chance to prove himself, you know? Well, this was that chance, whether I was ready for it or not. After all, there was no way I could miss _this_. What sort of best friend would I be if I didn't even attend Ciel's wedding, right? So I told Hannah that I was going, and that I was taking Claude with me, and she suggested that we make a family trip out of it. Brazil gets kinda boring, after all, once you've been there a few hundred times."

"Ooo, Brazil?" As was her wont, Grelle found a detail she liked and clung to it. Like a gossiping schoolgirl, she plunked her chin into her palms and leaned closer, cheeks pink with good-natured envy. "I'm _always _trying to convince Will to take me down there. He's got a brother who lives in that area of the world, I believe…"

"Yeah! You should totally drop by sometime. You could stay in our vacation home," Alois offered, grinning toothily at the reaper. "Undertaker is gonna visit, too, next summer. In thanks for letting us stay with him during this little misadventure. Why don't you and your husband come along, as well? The more the merrier! How about it, Ciel?" The blonde then turned to his self-proclaimed best friend, setting aside his cup to lace slender fingers with a giggle and a smile. "You and Sebastian should tag along. Brazil is great! Though you seem the type to burn easily… I'd be happy to rub you down with lotion before we go to the nude beaches~"

Ciel did not reply—didn't even bother growling anymore. Instead, he remained as stone-still as one of those tacky shopping center statues… one with a permanent scowl affixed to its marble face. Not that it really affected any of the others present; Alois shrugged, Grelle murmured something about ignoring the baby, and Claude merely pointed to Ciel's untouched drink and asked if he was going to finish it. When the little devil made no response, the butler tossed away his empty glass and began suckling on Ciel's smoothie, instead. Ciel half-considered being aghast and disgusted— memories of his last few days as a human returning in full force— but then belatedly remembered that no part of his body had ever officially touched that beverage. In fact, he'd hardly even _looked _at it. He was, however, looking at Claude now… and the butler was unabashedly returning that gaze, golden eyes dark with evocative questions.

"…did you want it after all?" he ventured lightly, moving as if to give back the half-guzzled treat. Ciel quickly shook his head, lifting a hand in abject refusal. The smoothie was immediately snapped back to Claude's chest, where he returned to nursing as if his continued survival depended solely upon how much frozen juice he managed to consume. Yet, despite the ridiculousness of the action (as well as the stupidity of the novelty glasses now resting atop the crown of his head), the older demon wore a notably somber expression as he simultaneously sucked and stared. There was nothing overtly threatening about the look; it certainly wasn't the most piercing stare that the devil had ever given. But after a few more moments of being subjected to it, the once-boy's mind began to jump to nasty conclusions: things like what Claude might be thinking about while he savored his creamy dessert. Ciel's brow had just creased into a furrow and his leg tensed for a kick when—rather unexpectedly—the servant chose to speak.

"Well then, if it's not the smoothie you're after, it must be answers that you want," he droned, using the hand that wasn't protectively wrapped around his cup to readjust his spectacles. "Perhaps you desire to know why I bothered to pit Alois against Sebastian in the first place. Or maybe why I haven't attempted to steal you back, now."

Ciel said nothing for a moment, seemingly content in their pseudo-staring contest. But that, much like everything else, swiftly grew wearisome; he ignored Grelle's prompting nudges but nevertheless gave in to her wish. "More the latter than the former," he confessed in a grumble, shoving against the reaper when she (again) leaned over to elbow him. "I don't particularly care about your motivations _then_, but I'd be a fool to ignore your motivations now. I can't believe you'd come here _just _to play escort to Alois—not after what you did in the past. What do you think you're up to?"

The raspy splutter of an emptying cup; Claude sighed in two-fold remorse. "'Up to?'" he then echoed, sounding faintly incredulous. "I am not 'up to' anything. I merely wished to accompany my family on their journey to see a loved one get married. I have no personal interest in _you_, anymore. Not when your soul is no longer fit for consumption." He smacked his thin lips, savoring the last, lingering traces of imitation pineapple and strawberry. "My affection for you never ran as deep as Sebastian's did. It's the inside that counts, and all of that, but I only ever craved a very specific part of your insides."

"Could have fooled me," Ciel muttered, shivering as he remembered volleys of bad-touches and lengthy lewd glances— crocheted blankets full of gaps for spidery fingers and serpentine tongues. It made his innards roil, really… but funnily enough, the once-child found comfort in the tender sting of his bottom: in the midnight bruises that peppered his skin and the memory of the demon who had left them there. He thus decided to concentrate on that. Alois, on the other hand, decided to focus on the more romantic aspects of the exchange.

"I always _knew_ that Sebastian loved you," he cooed, looking as much the part of a schoolgirl as Grelle did, now. "I said so, didn't I? Right from the beginning."

"Yes, you did," Ciel dryly agreed, shooting the blonde a glance that would have curdled milk, had there been any milk in the immediate vicinity. But there wasn't even any smoothie left, at this point. "And if I recall, you stole my body as punishment for that."

"Well… well, yes, okay, I suppose I can't deny that," Alois acknowledged with exasperating flippancy, rolling his eyes like Ciel was a toddler who bore a grudge for a stolen cookie, rather than a transmogrified earl with a lasting resentment for having had his most personal fortress violated by a psychopath with a penchant for masochism and a fetish for sadistic slaves from Hell. "But _you _can't deny that you have _me _to thank for your happily ever after, can you? After all, it was my wish that turned you into a demon in the first place." He graced Ciel with a grin that nearly oozed the words 'you're welcome;' Ciel had to physically coil his fists around his chair's sticky legs to keep from throwing a punch at that smug, dimpled face. "And seeing as that's the case, it really wouldn't make sense _not _to invite us to the wedding, don't you think?"

Alois fluttered his eyelashes, clearly attempting to look as charming as possible. Sadly, it rather had the opposite of the desired effect.

"_Invite _you?" Ciel bit out a sardonic laugh, the retort airy with incomprehension and soft with scorn. For the first time in… well, _centuries_; sometime prior to the invention of zippers and sliced bread… the once-child watched Alois' sunny smile blacken, and the sky of his face cloud over. "You dare—? The sheer _audacity! _Why on earth would I invite you? You tried to _destroy_ us! I don't even understand why you want to _go _so badly—unless you have some secret plan to try and ruin _this _for me, too!" With a shriek of metal on linoleum, Ciel pushed himself away from the gathering with enough force to send his chair tipping backwards. Luckily, he managed to leap to his feet before his seat hit the floor with a reverberating crash.

"Little br— _Ciel_." Grelle gawked, seemingly mortified, as she caught hold of the furious demon's shoulder in an attempt to keep him from storming off. He struggled against her steely grip, spitting and squirming like a riled kitten, but she refused to loosen her hold—even when she felt the trembles of emotion running through and through his limb, making her heart ache. Flustered, she shot a quick glance from the solemn Claude to the teary-eyed Alois, trying to wordlessly express her apologies. "Ciel, sit down," she whispered, gaze bouncing from one not-boy to the other. "You're causing a scene. And you're hurting the feelings of two devils who traveled an awfully long way to surprise y—!"

"You take _their _side?" Ciel gawked, cobalt eyes flashing vermillion. As his pupils narrowed and sharpened, so did his thrashing talons; startled, Grelle loosened her grasp just enough to allow the demon to wrench himself free without hurting her. "I don't believe this! You _personally witnessed _what their crimes did to Sebastian! To me! And yet, here you are, so eager to believe them? What's gotten into you?"

The redhead blinked once, rapidly, looking for all the world as if she'd just been socked in the gut. "Ciel, I…"

"_No. _I don't want to hear it! No, I don't want to discuss it! And _no_, they are _not _coming to my wedding!" the demon howled, and as that final declaration resounded through the sudden hush, he wheeled around and stormed towards the escalators, feeling as though he might throw up. Equally strong was the feeling that he was being watched by hundreds of bewildered people.

Which was as good a reason as any to fight the urge to vomit.

**9:39 AM**

This feeling of nausea intensified when his nostrils were assailed with the scent of rotten sweetmeats.

But that wouldn't be for a few more minutes, yet. The sensation of sickness was temporarily stifled by the suitably-stifling weather; ironically, Ciel's head felt a bit cooler and his nerves a little less frayed when he finally managed to stomp his way to the parking lot and into the muggy humidity of a 90-stupid summer day. He was still peeved, still tense, and still feeling horribly violated (if you couldn't trust the fact that the dead stay dead, what _could _you trust?), the petite demon had nevertheless calmed down enough to remember a rather pressing fact. Namely, that he had come to the mall with Grelle in her blood-colored Firebird. So unless he decided to swallow his pride and wander back to the reaper with his tail between his legs…

In short, he had no ride home. He supposed the bus was an option, but after having just dealt with the societal dregs that he had, Ciel felt that he'd reached his quota for spending time with weirdos and perverts for the next few decades. As for calling a cab, that was expensive and awkward; small talk was a chore and so were the endless questions about why he was alone. And that was all assuming he'd have been able to summon one in the first place; he hadn't brought his cell phone, having assumed that he'd be spending the day with Grelle, and the only person he ever really texted was busy with work. It was a pity; he might have been able to wrangle a ride from Finny, if he had. But no… meaning that he was on his own, as it were. He was perfectly capable of traveling by way of personal volition, of course; he was one of the strongest crows in the sky. But still, he didn't want to fly, since that ate up precious energy and he had no desire to start feeling Hungry again so soon. The mall was a good 30 minute drive from home, meaning it'd be a long and grueling walk… but anything was better than having to humble himself.

Except, perhaps, getting hit by a car.

Or almost hit, as it were; no need to exaggerate. Ciel had just taken his first few steps off of the curb when—near the four-way that marked the mall's entrance— the sound of squealing rubber filled the air with noise and the scent of burning. When he instinctively looked up, the ruckus was still far enough away to merely merit a cursory glance… but when the shrieking car in question (an almost antiqued black mustang), shot through the red light with an earth-shaking rev of its motor and an angry succession of subsequent horn-blasting, Ciel's attention was fully garnered. Somehow forgetting that he was standing rather absentmindedly in the middle of the road, he watched as the speeding car rocked and wheeled— careening wildly forward as if the running zombies from that idiotic movie his fiancé liked so much were snatching at its taillights. Actually, the whole scene played out as ridiculously as a chase sequence from the movies… which might explain why Ciel simply stood there and watched as the vehicle bore down on him, doing little more than leveling it a judgmental sort of stare.

Or maybe he did that because he recognized the license plate.

And indeed, when the car screeched to a sudden stop— its fender shuddering to a halt a scant, wavering centimeter from the baggy canvas of Ciel's kahkis— the hysterical creature that scrambled through the driver's side door recognized him, too.

"_Ciel!_" Sebastian cried, as breathless as if he'd just run the whole way on foot. In half an instant, he was upon the not-child— arms coiled around his middle and squeezing as if Ciel might try to escape if he didn't keep a crushing hold on him. Which wasn't an incorrect assumption to make, considering the elder devil currently smelled of trash.

"Sebastian, what in Hell's name—? Did you go dumpster-diving, or something?" the once-boy gagged, features scrunching in revulsion as he shoved against his fiancé's chest. It was still covered in powdered sugar and drying patches of syrup; come to think of it, wasn't his shift supposed to end at noon? "What are you doing here?"

"What am _I _doing here?" Like some sort of musical instrument, Sebastian's quaking voice slid up and down the tonal scale—from terrified to grateful to incensed. With a faltering grace, he fell into a low crouch, bodily shaking his precious charge. "What are _you _doing here? I've tried calling you a million times—where is your phone? Why didn't you tell me you were going out? The only reason I knew to look here is because William isn't dumb enough to withhold information from a devil who serves him his breakfast every other day, even _if _his wife warned him it was supposed to be some stupid surprise! _Save_ _it_ _all_—!" With a groan of emotion not wholly unlike frustration, but not quite as aggravated or upset anymore, the butler buried his face in the soft of Ciel's belly, covering Flipper's countenance with his own.

The younger demon regarded the crown of his servant's head with a strained sort of affection. Not that he minded the hug in theory, but… oh, whatever, he'd take a bath later. With a sigh, he smoothed down the refuse-riddled locks, wondering vaguely when a mall cop was going to wander by and slap them with a ticket for parking in the no-park zone. It was actually sort of a wonder that another car hadn't attempted to get around Sebastian's mustang ye—oh, wait. There was some angry honking now.

"I've always been aware of your obsessive tendencies, Sebastian," Ciel quietly murmured, foul mood temporarily appeased by the devil wordlessly worshiping his very existence, "but this is taking things a mite far, even for you."

_That_ caught Sebastian's attention. Looking somewhat miffed (perhaps even faintly offended; was it so wrong to be _passionate_ about the important things in life?), the former butler pulled away just enough to shoot his charge a sulky frown, forehead furrowing into three perfect folds. "Believe me," he retorted, surrendering to a full-body shiver as a memory passed through his doe-brown eyes, "with the news I've just received, it's a wonder I'm not taking you right here on the tarmac."

Ciel arched a single eyebrow, sinuous fingers slipping from tresses to temple to cradling the unhappy face. The minivan stuck behind Sebastian's mustang let loose another orchestral arrangement of pissed-off beeping. "I have a fairly good idea of what that news was," the demon said simply, one hand continuing to caress his lover's honey-streaked cheek while the other wrapped around Sebastian's bony wrist. With a pointed tug, Ciel moved that familiar hand from his hip to his rear; the servant started in surprise when his master essentially assisted him in groping. How very helpful. "But rather than have your way with me on the asphalt, perhaps we might try your car, instead…? In an actual parking spot. I'm fairly certain the caterwauling of that blasted van will ruin the mood, otherwise."

**9:46 AM**

And Ciel had thought Sebastian had burned rubber getting to the _mall_.

"How many sets of tires do you go through in a week, seriously?" the younger devil asked—casually conversational— as he straddled the waist of the demon in the driver's seat. As he spoke, he nonchalantly completed the last in a series of complicated knots—intentionally rub-rubbing against Sebastian's torso as he did so. The demon retaliated by breathing his answer direction into Ciel's sensitive ear, delighting in the once-earl's suppressed quaver.

"Too many to make driving a reasonable method of personal transportation," he chuckled, perfectly content to let his master have his fun. "You'll notice I'm inclined to walk to work. Mmm." He hummed his approval when the little one pulled away, having finished his self appointed task. That felt nice and tight… and seemed as it might hold, if they were careful. Looking thoroughly pleased with himself, Ciel leaned back against the steering wheel and surveyed his handiwork; in addition to his seatbelt ("You're the one who told me to always use it when in the car"), Sebastian had been effectively strapped in place by his dirty apron, its cords looped about the back of the partially reclined chair and woven around his crossed wrists. It wasn't a position that the devil seemed to mind, but there _was_ a glint of curiosity in the scarlet of his stare.

"You're still a mess," Ciel explained with a wrinkle of his nose, bracing himself against the car's inner controls. "So I don't want to have to touch you more than is absolutely necessary." With that, he rolled his nimble hips upward, and that glint of curiosity was replaced by one of lust.

**9:59 AM**

"Nn— my lord…? Wha—what is that… _ah_… tag I see…?"

Delicate digits, slickened with sweat, slipped across the leather of a jittering steering wheel and the mustang's metal stick shift. Only breaking pace long enough to fiddle with the zipper of his pants, Ciel panted through a husky chuckle when Sebastian's eyes flashed red— ironically, the same color as the visible strip of his new thong. The elder demon choked on a groan; his head fell forward as he struggled not to rip his uniform into shreds. (He needed to use it tomorrow, after all… provided he didn't get fired for randomly running out the door that morning.) This task was made all the more difficult by the continued movement of Ciel's grinding hips, his lissome back arching against the dashboard as he vigilantly avoided touching everything but the tented fabric of Sebastian's slacks.

"I s-sorta… shoplifted the- them_mmm_..." the little demon moaned, biting down hard on his bottom lip as his spasms became more sporadic. "Ha… had to yank on… my clothes 'ca- cause… mall security comes fas— _ah…_!"

And so did devils, in situations like this.

**10:07 AM**

"…we do not have to go home, if you want."

Ciel said nothing for a moment, instead choosing to concentrate on the rhythmic rise and fall of the chest he'd cuddled up against. His pillowed arms put some space between them, but he could still hear the rush of blood and adrenaline that coursed through the beloved body beneath. It was a reassuring sort of sound, soothing as a lullaby… It was difficult to believe that anything was wrong when he lay with Sebastian like this. (Well, anything other than an odor problem; the scent of sex was strong and welcome, but the tiny demon could still pick out the stench of sour milk and overripe berries.)

"But if we don't go home, you can't take a shower," Ciel reminded in a mumble, blowing out his cheeks as he twisted his face towards Sebastian's. Still tied flush to the seat, Sebastian was watching his fiancé snuggle against him with concern in his gaze. "And I'd rather like to change my underwear, at least."

"Even though it likely means facing Grelle?"

"Well, it's not like I could avoid her forever, anyway," the once-child pointed out, though he sounded none-too-excited by the prospect. "I mean, considering she's your best friend. And she has a key to the apartment. And she's planning our wedding. And she's also probably freaking out, since I kinda just ran off on her…"

"And you feel guilty for worrying her?" Sebastian surmised with a smirk, barely managing to stifle the chuckle in his voice. He, too, had calmed a great deal in the wake of physical gratification, and had even regained a modicum of his usual humor. Of course, he remained equally displeased by the unexpected arrival of tormentors from their past… but the fact that Ciel had survived an encounter with the devious pair and returned to his fiancé's side with little more than a post-tantrum headache was almost (dare he say it?) heartening.

Ciel, however, had always been the stubborn one; rather than embrace the tranquility his catharsis had provided, he mulishly continued to sulk and grumble. "She deserved it," he quietly insisted, lips pursing into a thin, willful line. "She saw first-hand how much Claude and Alois' games hurt you. And me. And us. And yet she dared to _stand up_ for those… those villains! Like they might actually be worthy of our forgiveness!"

The butler considered this outburst with a soft exhalation of breath—tickling against Ciel's ears as it wafted through the wispy down of his hair. "Well…" he then murmured after a pause, the words heavy with musings and hesitantly shared deductions, "Perhaps she sees herself in them. After all, she was once our enemy, too."

Ciel's lowered lashes leapt open; he sprang up like some sort of wound jack-in-the-box. "Are you _suggesting _that I_—?_"

"No," Sebastian interrupted simply, face set in an expression of muted forbearance. Although he was still unable to use his hands, his gaze was like a gentle caress; it smoothed the little one's rumpled feathers just as easily as it had ruffled them. "I am not. I am simply pointing out her likely reasoning, since I'm not sure you'll give her a chance to explain herself."

"…" Mismatched blue eyes flicked guiltily to the side, black-tipped fingers twisting and twining around one another. Similarly, the once-child himself squirmed in place, as if physically fighting with the emotions battling inside of his skinny chest.

Sebastian waited for the war's outcome with a small, enduring smile. The expression gained a flash of teeth when the smaller demon eventually growled out a groan and grimaced, scrubbing at the back of his neck as if trying to work out a pain lodged there.

"…I suppose you expect me to untie you now, don't you?" he guessed hollowly, with a second, blustery sigh. Sebastian cocked a slim eyebrow, as if the answer to that should be obvious. Which, to be frank, it really should have been.

"If you'd like me to drive you home, yes."

"Maybe I'll just sit on your lap and drive us myself."

"Do you know how to work a shift stick?"

"I've practiced enough with yours. I'm sure I could figure it out."

**12:34 PM **

"Look, I'm not saying I don't agree that it's appropriate—you know, taking Sebastian's personality into account—"

"Uh, I'm right _here_, you know."

"—but seriously, Sutcliffe, that song just makes me think Bad Thoughts. And not the _good _kind of Bad Thoughts." Cross-legged atop the island (much to Sebastian's grit-teethed irritation), Ronald shuddered at his own mental musings, then somberly shook his head. "I dunno what the hell those other people were thinking, choosing 'I'll Be Watching You' as their wedding song…"

"They were thinking that the lyrics were deep and beautiful and moving!" the redheaded reaper countered in a huff, hands on her hips as she glowered at her colleague. When he did nothing but offer a helpless, sorry-to-say-you're-stupid-and-wrong sort of shrug, she released a strangled scream of frustration and turned her attention to Sebastian, who was, indeed, 'right here, you know.' "Sebastian-darling," she implored, the hard edge of her voice melting into something syrupy sweet—like rock candy left out in the sun. "It's your wedding. You agree with me, don't you? It's lovely song for you and Ciel…"

"Actually, it reminds me more of another demon in my young master's life," Sebastian flatly intoned, casting Grelle a sidelong glance from over the rim of his half-moon spectacles. Before him on the table were envelopes of bills and receipts to deal with; the use of glasses helped to make the drollness of the chore more tolerable. Also assisting in that regard was Ciel. Still feeling somewhat clingy (and more willing to show it, now that both of them had washed), the little demon sat with his back to Sebastian's chair, pretending to read a book and endure the affections of a purring Georgina, but really only sticking around for the occasional brush of his butler's hand over his crown. "I would honestly prefer to never hear the song again, if it is all the same to you."

At the roundabout mention of Claude, Ciel visibly tensed. Grelle did the same, though for different reasons entirely; when Ciel had first come through the apartment door, she'd been too busy being happy to see that he was safe to bother with such mundane tasks as apologizing or attempting to continue their previous discussion like adults. After the not-child had disentangled himself from her embrace and scampered off once the bathroom was vacant, Grelle had briefly recounted to the grime-free Sebastian the events of that morning, as well as informed him that the infamous duo had gone back to the Undertaker's vacation home after the catastrophe in the food court. She was also quick to insist that she hadn't meant any harm by showing them hospitality. "I just… I think it'd be nice if the brat had friends his own age, too, you know?" she'd mumbled behind twiddling thumbs, bottom lip stuck out far enough to trip unsuspecting passersby. "Well, _sort of _his own age, anyway. And besides, if there's anything we've all learned, it's that the past should stay in the past. Why not use this opportunity to start fresh?"

Sebastian hadn't agreed or disagreed. But he had jotted down the phone numbers that Grelle had stolen from the twosome and secretly programmed his master's cell phone to block any incoming messages from Claude. Better safe than sorry, and all of that. Soon after, Ciel had reemerged in fresh clothes and Ronald had burst down the door in a hunt for food, and that brought them back to the awkward silence of the present.

Made all the more awkward, of course, by those with the mental facilities to understand that something was going on, but who lacked the capacity to be tactful about it.

"…eh?" Ronald tilted his two-toned head, eyes dancing from one solemn figure to another to another. "Dude, I feel like I've been left on the outside of an inside joke. Seriously, what the heck? The song was bad, but not _that _bad—what is it? Some memory-thing? Didja get dumped while this song was playing once, or something?"

"No, but I may very well commit murder to it if a certain someone doesn't get their dirty death god duff off of my countertop," Sebastian returned tersely, tapping a small stack of papers into a neat pile. He set another group of organized pages aside to be dealt with later, and then spared a moment to stroke Ciel's head. "In any case, let's talk about something other than music. Something that _isn't _reminiscent of… sensitive subjects."

Grelle nodded soberly, the very picture of submissive agreement, as she pulled out one of the island's bar stools and hopped up onto it. A moment later—apparently unsure whether or not Sebastian had been joking—Ronald did the same, though he made sure to sit on it backwards like the rebel he was. Arms and chin resting atop the back of his seat, the reaper (much like the two demons) watched with interest as Grelle rolled discussion ideas around in her head. "If not music…" she murmured thoughtfully, muttering to herself as she shot a glance at the checklist she'd taped to the refrigerator door, "then how about… the guest list?"

_Thud. _

Ciel's expression fell flat. "Is that supposed to be a joke?" he drawled, barely audible over the sound of Sebastian's forehead meeting the tabletop. Three times in a row.

"Sebastian-darling, don't do that— we want you looking your best for the wedding, don't we?" Grelle sang, in an ironically devil-may-care sort of way. Every ounce of timidity and indecision had vanished as if it'd never been; neither demon was certain if it was some sort of act for the sake of getting work done or if she sincerely believed that now was the best time to bring the subject up. In retrospect, she had always been the sort to tackle a problem head on, ramming herself into an issue until it had either been neutralized or otherwise trampled into dust. Perhaps she figured the healthiest and fastest way to help Sebastian and Ciel was to explicitly ignore their wishes and force them to do what she thought was best. Things like… like…

…like have a fancy wedding. Or wear a garter belt. Or invite old enemies over to celebrate. (Damn, thinking about it now, it was almost _frightening_ how effective her methods tended to be. They were going to have to keep a close eye and a closer ear on how she dealt with their refusal to use that awful song...)

"Now then." Grelle clapped her hands together, hopping from her current chair and sliding into a new one: a seat beside Sebastian at the dining table. As she did so, she helped herself to one of his discarded scraps of paper ("That's my utilities bill, Grelle") and tugged a fountain pen from the depths of her cleavage, unscrewing its garnet cap. "This doesn't have to be a _finalized _list… you could still invite—say— four more demons, if you later saw fit—"

"Nice. Very subtle," Ciel commented deprecatingly, keeping his dogged eyes trained upon his open book. Grelle didn't bother pointing out that he'd been staring at the near-empty title page for a good five minutes, at this point.

"—but I'd still like a basic idea of how many people to prepare for," the reaper finished, turning her serine smile upon the sarcastic little monster near her feet. "So, brat?" she prompted, the tip of her pen poised above the blank back of the important document. (Sebastian merely sighed. Whatever. His landlord was used to worse, at this point, he figured…) "Who were you thinking of inviting?"

"I was leaning towards Sebastian," the devil shot back dully, finally remembering that—in order to read (or at least look like he was doing so)—it might help to have words readily at his disposal. He turned to the first chapter, then went back to vacant staring and silence.

Grelle drummed her nails brusquely atop the glass surface of the table, her composure intact but showing the first signs of fissuring. "Anyone _else_?" she pressed after a long pause, crossing one svelte leg over the other and sliding more deeply into the confines of her seat. Body language made it clear she wasn't giving up that easily, and she wasn't going anywhere in the mean time.

"I do not think the young master and I were expecting much in the way of a guest list," Sebastian cut in, sliding off his spectacles and pinching the bridge of his nose. "Perhaps just you and Will, Finny, and Ronald. It is not as if inviting many others would be appropriate, anyway," he tacked on, then breezed through an explanation before Grelle could open her mouth to ask. "While we have a number of mortal acquaintances, yes, most of them recognize Ciel as my brother or something similar… and even if they didn't, he looks far too young to be walking down the aisle." As one, his head and gaze fell to the right, landing (much like his hand) upon his little lord. Ciel leaned back into the embrace, lifting his own gaze to meet his fiancé's. "To that end, I don't believe there is anyone else you _could _invite, is there, my lord?"

"Well, then," Grelle persisted, twisting from one difficult devil to the other, "what about _you_, Sebastian-darling?" Hope springs eternal, especially in immortals; she pressed her pen to the paper with every intention of filling it with names, not just a growing blot of ink. "You likely know more devils and demons than the brat does. Surely _they _could come and pay witness. It's not like they'd bat an eyelash at his appearance, or anything."

She waited, perky and patient, for the elder demon to finish sighing and start spilling. Sebastian took his time—massaging his forehead as if thinking (or, more likely, as if fighting back a headache)— but eventually did grumble: "I expect there'd be no harm in inviting the Undertaker."

A squeal of delight; finally, they were getting somewhere! "Good, good!" Grelle cooed in encouragement, jotting down the name and then looking back for more. Insatiable, that one. "Who else?"

"…I…" Sebastian cleared his throat, looking unexpectedly uncomfortable. The fondling fingers running through Ciel's locks came to a stumbling stop; that hesitation caught Ciel's attention far faster than any whisperings did. Closing the novel he wasn't really reading anyway (how shocking), he leaned away and around to shoot his servant a proper stare, features pinching in concern when he noticed that the uncharacteristic vacillation extended to his servant's expression, as well.

"Sebastian…?"

Sebastian dragged his now-free hand down his face, muting his umpteenth sigh as he did so. "I suppose," he continued weakly, "that if the news has truly traveled as fast and as far as… well, as it apparently has, there is no avoiding it. I shall have to formally invite my family, shan't I?"

Blue eyes widened—nearly as round as the mouth that fell open. But before he had a chance to speak, Ronald (oh, yeah, _he _was still there wasn't he?), stole the worlds from his mouth like the thief that he was. "Woah," the reaper cackled, leaning so far back on his barstool that he was essentially lounging on top of the counter again. "You have family, big guy? Does this mean there are baby picture out there that I might be able to get my hands on?"

The devil decided to ignore the second quip (as if he'd ever admit to that), but for the sake of his gawking master, responded to the initial question. "Yes, of course I have a family. I can't very well have appeared from thin air, now, could I? That would hardly make sense." Though the words were somewhat mordant, he offered his tamer a gentle grin, as if in some attempt to pacify the brewing distress he could so acutely sense. "I have a mother, a father, and…"

"Oh, just _let _me invite him, Sebastian-darling!" Grelle interrupted in a keen, as if this confession meant nothing to her. As if she knew something that the others didn't. Which, Ciel suddenly realized, was a distinct possibility, considering who her husband was and what sources he had access to. But…

"You're not inviting _anyone_ without Ciel's explicit permission," Sebastian retorted briskly, tearing his gaze from his still-startled master and directing it instead towards the death god. It was far more barbed a glare when it landed upon its new target. "If my lord does not want them here, I will turn them away at the door. I'll bar the windows, too, so you can't sneak them in like you did all of your reaper friends a few Halloweens ago. And then I'll add _you _to the uninvited list."

Grelle squawked in protest at the very idea, hand flying to her breast like some sort of slighted southern belle. "You can't uninvite _me_," she snapped, though the intensity of the reply was somewhat nullified by the whine in her tone. "I have my own key. And speaking of, do you honestly think _not _getting an invitation would stop them? Wouldn't it just be easier to deal with them up front, rather than have them crash the party by crawling through the air vents, or something? You know they would."

"Well, we could always block the air vents. Ciel and I, at least, don't need to breathe—"

"Oh my God, seriously guys, what is it with all of today's vagueness and shit?" Ronald—still pointedly _there_—pouted from his place halfway between seat and island, looking for all the world like he was in the middle of being eaten by the furniture. "Who are you talking about? Looks like Juliet wants to know, too—don't you?" The reaper nodded down at Ciel, whose stunned features were growing paler and paler as he began to connect dots in his mind—dots that he'd previously seen as unrelated.

Grelle fluttered innocuous lashes, shrugging off the very warning glower that Sebastian threw her way. "We're talking about Sebastian's family," she provided, easy as you please. "Specifically about Sebastian's brother—"

"…Claude."

Sebastian flinched as the barest whisper fell from Ciel's mouth, deadened in the wake of dawning realization. But hearing it spoken aloud (even if by his own power) seemed to be all that Ciel needed to confirm his own suspicions; his head shot up as his shoulders tensed, and he scuttled away on his bottom when his servant reached out to touch him. "It's _Claude_, isn't it?" he repeated, the words growing louder as conviction and horror added a tremble to his voice and a tinge of green to his cheeks. "Sweet Satan, it is. It all makes sense, now… I was just a pawn in a sibling spat, wasn't I?"

The elder demon looked as if he'd just been informed that he had five minutes left to live. "Ciel, I—"

"How could you not _tell _me, Sebastian?" the once-child demanded, tremors racing up and down the length of his body. Even _he_ wasn't sure what emotion they were symptoms of: fury? Disappointment? Disgust? Sorrow? "In _all this time_, how could it _not _occur to you to tell me that _Claude_ was your brother? After what he did to us—?"

His croaked question caught on memories; his nails left crescent moon punctures in the cover of his book.

"It just—it never seemed appropriate…" Sebastian feebly explained, in some pathetic attempt to justify his actions. Or lack thereof, as it were. But even _he_ had to admit, it was a fairly lame excuse, thinking back on it. "After your initial transformation, there was so much more to worry about. And once we'd dealt with that, there was the… turning point… in the Irma Hotel, and our stint at the Aurora bar and— well, once things had settled down again, there just never seemed a good time to bring it—"

"Is that also why you never told me that you had _parents_?" Ciel cut off frostily, scooting back another foot when his fiancé leaned over, truly reaching for him now… The little one's back slammed into the base of the island, and he used that leverage to slide to his feet. Knobby knees buckled beneath him; he clung to the countertop to stay upright. "'There just never seemed to be a good time' to tell me that you had this whole _other life_? Or is it that you didn't want me to know? Or you didn't want _them_ to know?" With a mortifying crack, Ciel's voice broke along with the dam of his pride; two pearly tears spilled down his pallid cheeks… It almost seemed paradoxical, since his eyes felt like they were on fire. "Are you embarrassed?" he queried in a quivering hush, violently batting away the hand that Ronald offered to help keep him standing. "Don't _touch _me! Well, Sebastian? Are you _embarrassed_ to tell your family that you made a mistake and got stuck with me for eternity? Or is it that you don't want them to know that you're together with someone who used to be _human!_"

"You _are_ something of an abomination," Ronald agreed, only to lift his hands in defense when two demons and one death god snapped their poisonous glares upon him. "What? Oh, come on, _everyone_ knows that…!"

He was ignored for the remainder of the discussion.

"Ciel— oh, little one," Sebastian tried again, climbing slowly to his feet—carefully, calculatedly, as if to keep from frightening a hurt and harried animal. It didn't stop Ciel from shrinking away, but at least he didn't immediately run… "Baby bird, that is not true at _all! _Do you really think I would marry you if I felt that way…?"

Garnet-colored eyes narrowed as Ciel's indignant cowering brought him further behind the countertop; he looked more and more like some sort of caged beast as he quaked in the cabinet-filled corner, trapped by Sebastian's approaching body. "You _just said_ you weren't planning on inviting your family," he hissed, pupils waning to livid slits. "I was only going to be some tawdry secret… and this wedding some stupid attempt at tricking me into thinking you actually cared!"

With a burst of emotion that culminated in a stamp of his foot, a roll of three tears, and a heavy tome chucked as hard as possible at Sebastian's unsuspecting stomach, Ciel dashed from the kitchen with a venomous snarl and a parting, acidic slur: "You _devil!_"

A slamming door; a ringing silence. A faint cough to accompany an arched brow.

"…huh. Well. _That_ was fairly hypocritical."

"Oh, _shut up_, Ronald," Sebastian spat, winded and wincing. _Blast_, that had hurt; nothing like a good book, as they say… Hands on his knees, the demon quietly assessed the damage done to his torso: a bruise was inevitable, and hardly worth noting. His diaphragm and belly felt sore, but whole. Lungs? Empty, but functioning. His ribs were less lucky—three were fractured, two were broken. They'd heal in a minute. But the biggest concern was his breaking heart. "Just… shut up."

At the table beyond, Grelle bit her bottom lip, toying uneasily with the pen in her hands. "So… that's a 'yes' on Claude, right?" she confirmed lightly, as if she'd turned away and somehow missed the events that had so recently played out. Which, knowing her, might not have been so far from the truth. "Excellent. I'll invite the other three, as well, just to fill up some chairs. Our next order of business, then, is the invitations themselves. I'm leaning towards a black and silver motif… What do you think?"

Keeled over in the kitchen, the battle-wounded Sebastian groaned, falling to his knees as whatever strength remained in his body morphed into weary exasperation.

"I think the two of you should go home, now."

**XXX**


	3. Something Borrowed

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing. Which shouldn't be a surprise, at this point.

**Author's Note: **I don't normally beg for reviews anymore, but for this chapter—please? In exchange for 39 pages, you guys can give me at least a _little _feedback, can't you? i3i

**Warnings: **SebaCiel. Part of the "Bicentennial" series ("Bicentennial," "Inevitable," "Five Thousand," "Timetable," "Coffee Break." "Cats and Dogs," "Surely Someday," "Turn," and "Bouquet."); Takes place immediately after "Five Thousand." Having read Neocloud9's fic, "Industrial Inertia," is important, too. Season II logic, haha. I know no Portuguese or Hindi, so I blame all related fail on Bablefish. And finally, thanks to for doing my research for me. XD

**Dedication: **For Neneko and Madeline-Elizabeth, who made me that _amazing _Bicentennial tribute video (see my bio page for a link to it!), and Theladybluebird, because she's been going through some hard times. I hope this helps a little, love!

**XXX**

**Hitches and Knots**

**X**

_Something Borrowed_

**XXX**

**12:52 PM **

"Ciel…?"

There was a ginger knock on his door—tentative and hesitant, much like the voice that accompanied it. Face buried in his knees and arms threaded through the gap between thighs and shins, the demon in question offered no response. Rather, he went so far as to hold his breath, just in case his servant mistakenly chose to believe that his exhaling was meant to serve as a kind of cryptic reply. The not-child sat atop his quilted bed in utter stillness, staring at his walls but seeing nothing.

"Ciel, please. Can we not just talk about this?"

In the hall, locked from the room by a bolt and common courtesy, Sebastian stood and waited for acknowledgment. Ciel watched his black socks squirm amongst the thick strands of ivory carpeting, rocking back and forth as the butler rolled from heel to ball. His toes curled once or twice. Then, at the five minute mark, there was the sound of a gusty sigh.

"I'll give you some time, then."

**1:11 PM**

Another knock. There was a little less uncertainty, this time— Sebastian's shadow only lingered at the doorway for a few moments before he took action— but the hollow resonation was just as soft, just as nervous, as the first had been.

"Ciel?" Somewhere beyond his tamer's vision, the elder demon cleared his throat; the knocking stopped, but his fist lingered atop the wooden panel. "Ciel, I know it's a bit late for tea, but I've prepared some. And peanut butter cookies, too. The kind with Hershey kisses in the middle…"

The words trailed off. The implication was clear: Sebastian had made a type of cookie that was best when eaten straight from the oven. The once-earl frowned, sensing a trap; hell, it was likely a _lie_, seeing as it was his stupid-family-hiding-loser-face-servant saying it…

Yet remarkably, the declaration _wasn't_ just a ploy to make Ciel open the door. At least, not in the dishonest sense; it was a truth that the little devil was forced to acknowledge when he sucked in a deep breath, presumably in order to call out his butler for trying to pull the wool over the 'sacrificial lamb's' eyes. Again. But no: the sweet aroma of fresh baking wafted from the kitchen, down the corridor and through the vents. Even still, that hardly changed the fact that the air reeked of a bribe, and Ciel wasn't biting—not in any sense of the word. Instead, he yanked his favorite pillow from the head of the bed and squished it between his legs and chest, burrowing his face in its goose feathers. He ignored the fact that it smelled like Sebastian.

Outside, the elder demon's fingers slid down the barrier, knuckles scraping against the partition. There was a deadened thump as his hand landed against his side. It was a nice try, but a failed one.

"…I'll just leave some out for you. For later."

**1:47 PM**

Ciel wasn't surprised by the third interruption, just as he hadn't been overly shocked by the first two. It was a small apartment, and his ears were better than any human's; he hadn't missed the sound of Sebastian's work ringtone (_Do you like waffles? Yeah, we like waffles~_), nor the brief conversation he'd shared with the person on the other end of the line. There was the plastic snap of a cell phone being closed, the rumple of hair as it was roughly scrubbed, and the creak of chair-linoleum-carpet—all of which served as adequate warning.

Ciel prepared for Sebastian's arrival by continuing to sit in place and do nothing.

"Ciel?" The name came before the knocking this time, and it sounded very weary. "Ciel, I just got a call from my boss at Wendell's. I told him that there was a family emergency this morning—"

The once-child cringed at the f-word.

"—and that I had no choice but to leave. However, they're a bit short-staffed this afternoon, so they've asked me to come back in and make up my shift." Sebastian paused for a moment to let that announcement sink in… or maybe to see if any immediate protests sprang up. Nothing. Unsurprised (but still notably upset), the devil pressed on, returning his phone to his pocket with a rustle of his jeans. "Anyway, I told him that I would, as I thought you might appreciate some time to yourself. Of course, if you'd rather, I could stay…"

He waited for a spell, warily optimistic, but clearly not expecting much. This time, he even succumbed to a bit of pacing: Ciel watched his feet through the gap between door and floor, heard him blow out his cheeks as his shoulders slumped.

"…alright. I understand," Sebastian finally whispered, in a voice one might utilize while raising a white flag. That disheartened tone echoing through the gloom was enough to make Ciel's insides writhe… but why should _he _be the one to feel guilty? He hadn't done anything wrong. He hadn't been the one to lie, to keep secrets. The once-earl's countenance contorted in a sulk, and he turned bodily away when Sebastian did.

"I will keep my phone on. Call me if you decide that you desire to talk."

**1:49 PM**

Somewhere beyond the kitchen, the front door closed with a muted _thud_. A grind of gears, and the lock fell into place, too. The resulting hush was deafening: it rang in Ciel's ears like angry wasps or buzzing flies, attracted to something too sweet. Rotting. With a frustrated groan, the young demon took the pillow from his lap and smushed it over his eyes and ears; for half a moment, he fought the urge to scream into it. Then he remembered that no one else was around, so what the hell?

"__RRRAAAAAGH_—!_"

The feathers and stuffing swallowed some of the screech; the rest resounded through his room and his mind as the heat of his breath and the burn of his eyes was reflected back upon his nestled face and made everything feel hot and sticky and _worse. _And there was still the stink of Sebastian. With a muted whimper, the tiny devil slid the cushion a shuddering inch downward, tipping to his side and curling up around its almost-uncomfortable warmth.

It wasn't that he didn't want to talk. It was that he didn't know what to say.

"…stupid demon," Ciel mumbled to himself, hooded gaze still locked upon the entryway. There was no one out there, now, and he could feel it in his bones; how long had it been since they'd last had a legitimate argument? Not over something pointless and menial, not a trivial disagreement, but… He pursed thin lips, forehead as wrinkled as his shirt. The Irma Hotel, maybe? Or during their stay at the Aurora…? The not-child's pouting features screwed up all the more as he tried not to think about it—or the hollow, empty feeling that both was and wasn't hunger. "Stupid demon, and his stupider family, and his stupidest brother…!"

It was ridiculous. _This _was ridiculous. Everything was dumb and horrifying and stupid-stupid-_stupid_ and ridiculous and Ciel wanted nothing to do with it, anymore. If Claude was so important to Sebastian, then Sebastian could go talk to him, if he wanted to talk so badly.

It'd been centuries since they'd last seen each other, after all. Sebastian surely had all sorts of things to say to him.

**1:52 PM**

"Fuck you."

Sitting cozily within the comforting confines of lime-green vinyl, the bespectacled demon lifted a single thin eyebrow, lightly lacing his fingers atop the speckled plastic of the table. His server—teeth grinding and fist clenched around a pot of complementary coffee— privately hoped that his patron's pristine sleeve would fall into a puddle of spilt syrup or some unappetizing "leftover" left courtesy of previous diners, but it seemed lady luck was aware of his sexual orientation and thus wasted no time trying to curry his favor. Claude lifted his arms without any apparent difficulty, and used the back of his hands as a cradle for his chin.

"Is that any way to greet me? After all this time?" he calmly asked, though there was the faintest glimmer of twisted amusement in the round of his golden irises. "And as an _employee _of this fine establishment? That button on your apron says you've won an award for outstanding customer service."

Sebastian's smile did not reach his eyes; it barely stretched high enough to touch his cheeks. "Oh, I always put the customer before myself," he assured with mocking sincerity, left hand over his chest as he debated the pros and cons of dumping the sludgy, lukewarm contents of the pot in his right over Claude's lap. "At least, that is my policy when we are standing together in oncoming traffic."

Claude's returning grin was one tinged with casual boredom. "Still," he politely returned, tilting his head atop his knuckles so as to fully regard his livid waiter. "For the sake of this restaurant's good name, as well as your 'Top Waffle' reputation, perhaps you could try greeting me again. I know you can do better."

Indeed. Sebastian graced his brother with a beam so bright it may as well have come from the sun. Then, with a deep, steadying inhalation, he made a valiant second attempt:

"Fuck you _and_ the whore you rode in on."

A beat. The other frowned. "As I recall, the phrase is 'and the _horse_ you rode in on,'" Claude corrected in a mild drawl, readjusting his glasses with a flick of his finger. His middle finger, to be precise. "But then again, you probably think you are making some clever witticism about Alois, don't you? Hmph. And mother and father always say that _I _am the immature one…"

Without ever offering to fill his mug, Sebastian slammed the coffeepot atop the counter— glowering as packets of sugar and plastic cups of cream quivered and tumbled from the carefully constructed monuments that young children (and possibly the demon, when on break) had built them into.

"I _have_ always wondered how two such intelligent devils could spawn a worthless imbecile like you," Sebastian sneered, dropping himself heavily into a seat across from Claude. His arms instinctively wove themselves around his chest; one leg looped over the other and began to jiggle in a show of bubbling irritation. "You have no subtly, no tact, no patience. You lack a proper appreciation for aesthetics and beauty… I used to think that the only thing you were good at is dying, but it seems you can't even do _that _right, can you?"

Claude shrugged vaguely, as if allowing the insult to roll off of his shoulders. "Or perhaps you simply don't know how to use a sword," he retorted, mimicking his elder sibling gesture for gesture. "It must be a rather difficult concept for you to grasp, Malphas: take sharp object. Stab. Repeat to taste. If it'd been me, I'd have made sure to saw off your head before I left. Maybe even burn your remains, just to make certain. But not you—you've always been too soft." His upper lip curled as his nostrils flared; obvious signs of disgust as he considered what he knew of his brother.

It was Sebastian's turn to mirror Claude, at least in terms of expression. "You should know better than to call me by that name. It is not mine anymore," the devil snapped, though he made sure to keep his voice low. The lunch rush was almost over, and the Waffle House was clearing out; while there was still some clattering cutlery and a sobbing toddler to muffle the finer points of the demons' suspicious discussion, it was better to be safe than sorry. After all, Madeline was still prowling around somewhere, looking peeved… "Would you like me to go back to calling you 'Mephie,' like I used to? Or 'Mephi-stop-it-please?'"

Claude growled, eyes darting back and forth as if looking to kill anyone who might have overheard that. He seemed to be in the clear, but still… "_Basta_—" But Sebastian didn't even give him a chance to finish a basic insult.

"And like _you're_ one to judge on softness. From what Hannah tells me, it was due to your incessant whining that she resurrected the Macken boys."The former butler's frown morphed into a simpering sneer, gaze as sharp as the nails that he drummed against his forearm. "Shall I call you out on hypocrisy now, or should I wait until I catch you spooning Alois in my coat closet?"

For the first time, the train of Claude's suave sarcasm was derailed; his features folded to form a façade of unmistakable bewilderment. "Your coat cupboard?" he echoed in monotone, confusion evident in both pinched brow and vacillating tone. "Even if I were to… spoon… Alois, why in Satan's name would we do it in your coat closet?"

The saddest part was that almost sounded like a dumb question.

"Because everyone does," Sebastian was forced to explain, the words as flat as his expression. And in the wake of that sorry (and fairly disgusting) reality, he almost missed that his companion's disgust had doubled. Almost. It was only Claude's previous inflection, niggling away as phantom sounds at Sebastian's ears, which finally cued him in; he interrupted the resulting silence and continuing unease with a swift triple-blink and a mutter of mystification. "…wait a moment," he then grunted, raising his palm as if in an attempt to physically blockade the march of time. "Wait, wait. Are you telling me that you _aren't _romantically involved with that blonde-haired brat?"

A nod. In that instant, the gentlest summer breeze could have bowled Sebastian over. He half-expected a tumble weed to roll by. It was a change of demeanor that did not go unnoticed.

"I do not understand why that is so surprising," Claude said simply, just as unfazed as… well, ever. But at the same time, there was teeniest, tiniest, faintest little glimmer of perplexity in his piercing gaze. Like Sebastian wasn't really the one who 'didn't understand.' Rather… "I have not spent as much time in the human world as you or Hannah. I have not made as many Contracts. I have not… learned… the human's ways, as you have. I have not adopted their emotional behaviors. Or adapted, or evolved, or whatever pretty phrase you might like to use. I do not feel as Alois does, or Hannah does, or you do, because I do not know how."

Sebastian considered this answer, mouth pressed into a thin line. But whether it was a show of judgmental disapproval or a cursory attempt to keep from smiling was anyone's guess. "And yet," he pointed out a moment later, tone simultaneously airy and weighted, "despite this shameful ignorance of yours… you still wished to see your master returned to life?"

Claude's frown deepened; he shifted awkwardly in his seat, jittery as a cornered spider. "…it was a very peculiar feeling," he eventually mumbled, gaze dropping to the bicolor tabletop. With a few small jerks, he'd disentangled his willowy arms; one twitching finger began to poke at the packaging of a discarded bendy straw, already rolled into a crumpled paper ball. "An unpleasant tugging in my gut. An ache, as persistent as hunger. When I told Hannah of the problem, resurrection was the solution that she suggested."

"And do you feel better now? Have the symptoms gone away?" Sebastian cocked his head in question, persistent and demanding. He almost felt like a counselor, what with all of this armchair psychology. Or diner booth psychology, as it were. In any case, Claude responded to the prodding like the patient that Sebastian was beginning to see him as: by refusing to speak. And of course, as a result, far more was said than the younger devil liked.

Despite his best efforts, Sebastian felt a minute grin tug at the corners of his lips. "Well, well," he then teased, lounging back to sit as smugly as a prince atop a throne constructed of plastic products. "Perhaps your marble heart may yet turn to soapstone."

"Is that what has happened to yours? Did it start as rock and melt into flesh?" Claude grumbled, forsaking the scrapped wrapper and instead playing with the straw itself. With the pad of his index, he spun it briskly; the tube shot an inch forward, then rolled back down for another go. "Father used to say that, even though we devils were once angels, we are more like humans, now. Because we Fell, and so did they. Does that make us naturally more… attune to mortals? Or is it that the covenants we form corrupt us?"

"Maybe it's that we are what we eat," Sebastian returned with a smirk and a laugh, not sharing in his sibling's brooding pensiveness. He earned a glare and a growl for his glibness, but neither reaction deterred him. "Claude, the problem is that you've spent your life thinking in generalizations. Generally, angels work for the side of good. Generally, demons are cruel scoundrels. Generally, humans are weak and worthless and good for nothing more than a snack. But that's textbook, and this is life. If you live long enough—like we do—you're bound to run into evil angels, considerate demons, and humans with more power than either of us combined." As the words of wisdom flowed, a wave of memories crested; Sebastian's leer lessened, turning into something almost… empathetic. "Just because you develop softer emotions, that doesn't mean you're any less of a devil."

Claude's expression remained pointedly unreadable. "…and I suppose you think of yourself as an example of that fact?" he surmised dryly, untouched by the sea of knowledge that his brother tried to share. He gingerly readjusted his spectacles on the bridge of his nose. "That you're 'no less' of a devil, even though you do nothing but serve waffles and coffee and dote on that abomination, Ciel Phantomhive?"

In half an instant, the placid ocean of Sebastian's eyes grew stormy; sparks of scarlet lightening fizzled in the depths of chilled vermillion. "The only _abominations_ are those two demon children you had Hannah create," he spat, clipped and even and still attempting to keep his voice down. The baby in the background had fallen asleep; they had even less cover, now. "Synthesized devils made of old souls and new bodies… thrown together for a demon who claims he doesn't even give a damn!"

Sebastian bore his fangs, waiting for the inevitable comeback. But while Claude did, of course, respond, it lacked the calculated curtness and verbal poison that his companion had obviously been expecting. In fact, not only did the riposte lack bite and venom, it lacked all manner of fight and backbone; both creatures were notably taken aback by the strange _meekness_ of Claude's returning whisper, muffled all the more when he bowed his head, as if in shame.

"Just because I don't give a damn, doesn't mean I don't _want _to," he mumbled, giving the straw a final flick that sent it flying off of the table. It rolled down the ribbed padding of the opposite seat, vanishing somewhere beneath their feet; neither gave it a second thought. "I see the way Hannah looks at me. Feel the yearning in Alois' stare. Even Luca seems to love me, in some capacity— I can tell by the way he tugs at my hand when he asks for piggyback rides."Claude paused long enough to allow himself a clipped sigh, the sound a tangled mess of exasperation and frustration. "I understand their affections in an objective sense. I recognize them by name. But I don't yet _feel _them the way that they do. All I feel is… guilt."

The susurration of settling cloth. The squeak of vinyl. A few tables away, a man spilt his milk and selected a few choice curses to inform those around him how he felt about this particular turn of events.

"…but you feel _something_," Sebastian then clarified, sinking back into the booth with fingers steepled atop his stomach. Still chary in the wake of insult, his face was lined with apprehension and distrust, but also… "That alone is a step in the right direction."

"Even so." Leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, Claude's upper arms bumped the table (with a rattle of faux-silver forks and knives) as he shot his sibling a series of fleeting glances, worrying his bottom lip all the while. "I had rather hoped… That is to say, Alois is not the only one who actively wished to attend the wedding. Though my immediate reaction to this folly is that such a ceremony is ludicrous and goes against everything that we are as devils—"

"Gee, tell me how you _really _feel, Claude."

"—I must also recognize that if my emotional state is to someday parody yours, I might… want to do the same," he finished lamely, cheeks now tinged a flustered shade of salmon. The flush darkened when Sebastian's gaze bore into him, dubious but at the same time unable to entirely dismiss what his companion was saying. After all, they were demons: they could not lie. "And perhaps I might even learn to feel more than just 'guilt' by watching the two of you, who are at once are so much alike and so different than my companions and me."

The ramble faded into silence, and so—surprisingly—did a great deal of the tension crackling between the pair. Sebastian's stare remained steady, dark, and indecipherable in its wordless contemplation, but it lacked the animosity that had stained it scarlet mere moments ago. Saying nothing, the devil continued to regard his brother for a minute or two more, lips tweaking upward when Claude finally found his spine again and gazed back, jaw and woven fists clenched.

"…you know," the elder demon finally murmured, lifting his fingers and idly admiring the ebony-glossed talons that decorated the end of each pale tip, "it is a strange thing, learning to love. At first you don't fully understand it, and you guard it like a treasure. If you're lucky, you'll find a person worth sharing it with, even if it's only little bits at a time. But the more you share it, the more you _feel _it, the more difficult it is to control. It leaks and oozes, like some sort of pond scum… it's really quite disgusting, if you think about it. And suddenly, you wake up one morning and realize that all of these creatures that you've known for so long, people that you swore you'd always hate… they aren't so bad, honestly. You've been wading around in _their_ pond scum for so long, it's almost comfortable. And when you look at them, there it is—the love that _you've_ been excreting, clinging to them like the slime from a snail."

Sebastian scrunched his nose at the thought, apparently engaging in some rather amusing mental images. Claude wore the same expression, but it was not nearly so whimsical. "Well, _that's _perfectly disgusting," he intoned, shuddering with revulsion. "I do hope you never apply to work part-time at Hallmark."

"Well, that's just it, isn't it?" Sebastian countered, ignoring the quip. It was a stupid company, anyway. (How _dare _they fire him—?) "Love is not always pretty. It can be a gem or a joke; valued or vile. Sometimes, you don't understand it. Sometimes, you don't _want _to understand it. And sometimes you don't want to give it, but you wind up sharing it anyway… even with people you don't particularly _like_. Family, for instance."

Claude mulled over this for a spell, fiddling with the temple of his spectacles. The piercing stare was overkill, he thought; he got it. Point made. "So you still do not like me."

"And I doubt I ever will," Sebastian cheerfully tacked on, giving in and allowing his usual, condescending grin to fully posses his countenance. "To be perfectly frank."

Fair enough. "But despite that… you love me." He posed it as a statement, not a question. Because that's what it was, really: statement, not a question. The elder devil was the one to indulge in a sigh this time, blowing out his cheeks with a wet, raspberry sound and a grumble of affirmation.

"God knows why."

Claude snapped him a horrified stare.

"…what?" Sebastian lifted his hands, palm-out, in a show of defense, even as his brow arched in challenge and indignation. "_He_ would. _I _certainly don't."

The second demon shifted uneasily, moving away from the corner that he'd trapped himself in; his narrowed gaze began to jump from one side of the room to the other. With a squeal of heated plastic, Claude positioned himself on the edge of his seat, as if God Himself might show up any minute and demand to know why they'd dared to utter His name. If that happened, he'd be set to skedaddle before any smiting took place. Sebastian, in turn, rolled his eyes, flopping more fully against the back of his chair. Once a minute had passed and no holy glow had enveloped them, Claude did the same with as much grace and poise as he could salvage. Though in truth, he hadn't had much of either to start with, considering he was wearing a flowery Hawaiian T-shirt over his respectable button-down.

"…to recap, then," the younger demon eventually droned, forearms on the table as he leaned closer—a businesslike tone for his businesslike manner. "You do not like me—"

"'Hate you' would be a touch more precise."

"—but you still love me."

He sounded as befuddled by this seeming paradox as if he'd just been asked to explain how much wood a wood chuck could chuck. (Assuming, of course, a wood chuck could chuck wood.) Sebastian merely smiled, as if basking in the grandeur that was his brother's idiocy.

"And because of that," he elucidated calmly, perfectly content to watch Claude fidget in bewilderment, "if Ciel approves, of course— I will allow you to attend the wedding." Provided they still _had _one; there was no longer any guarantee, taking his little one's temperament into account. But Sebastian chose not to dwell on such unpleasant things for the time being. It was far easier to work under the assumption that the ceremony was still on. "You're right, I think. It _would_ be a good experience for you… and for the rest of your strange little family."

"Family? A _wedding_?"

Visibly startled, both demons gave small jolts of surprise as a new voice joined their conversation. But where Claude's expression of puzzlement simply became slightly more profound, Sebastian noticeably paled. As one, they turned towards the head of their table, where a scowling young woman with brown hair and glasses was holding her own pot of coffee, her irritation juxtaposed by the happy buttons proclaiming 'service with a smile' that had been pinned to her apron.

"…Madeline," the whiter one greeted with a tight-lipped grin, edging towards the window as if putting some distance between himself and her wrath might somehow help the situation. It didn't.

"What on earth are you doing, Sebastian? All of your tables have been complaining that they haven't seen you—I've been flagged down four times, and there's a stack of trays waiting to be delivered in the back!" she groused, slamming a second pot of coffee atop the table. It seemed they had a growing collection, now… "You run out the door with hardly a word this morning, and now I find you relaxing back here—this isn't what you're getting paid for, you know! Do your damn share of the work! And how the hell is a _wedding _an emergency?"

Shit. Maybe he'd be fired today, after all. "I—" Sebastian began, halfheartedly trying to think up a decent excuse. Perhaps pleading insanity…? "I— uh…"

But his floundering faded to silence when, out of seemingly nowhere, Claude's hand appeared—wrapping around Madeline's own and thoroughly distracting her. "Hey, what're you—? …oh." Balanced precariously on the brink of fury, the young woman spun around with enough force to send her careening over the edge— …but instead, when she whipped toward the fool who'd dared to touch her without permission, she stumbled backwards into metaphorical safety. Her dark eyes widened a flustered fraction as she took a good look at the second devil's suave smile, and her tensed muscles went limp with embarrassed delight when he brushed a chivalrous kiss over the round of her knuckles.

"_Olá, meu caro. Meu nome é o amante da aranha_," Claude breathed across her goosepimpled skin, slender fingers dancing up her wrist like… well, like an awfully large arachnid. Sebastian was reminded of the adage about enjoying a sensation until you looked down to see what was causing it, but kept it to himself. "_Eu ver o desgastar vidros. Faça assim o I_."

"…um… okay…" The girl offered Claude a dreamy, encouraging smile in response to… whatever the heck he'd just told her… and kept her gaze warm and appreciative even as she snapped at Sebastian, "Who is he and what did he say?"

Sebastian considered translating accurately, but in the end decided he had too much dignity. Besides, "I see we both wear glasses" sounded far more romantic in Portuguese, and a wooed Madeline was easier to handle than an irate one. "This is Claude," he answered instead, indicating the demon in question. Claude was still molesting the waitress's bony arm; watching his angled eyebrows wiggle was one of the cheesiest, creepiest sights that Sebastian had ever been made to sit through. "He is my brother. And the emergency wasn't the wedding so much as it was his… unexpected arrival." It wasn't a lie.

"_Seus olhos são como poços do piche do molde,_" Claude purred, gazing straight into the eyes in question. The elder devil choked on a snort, which he then forcibly turned into a brisk cough. Madeline was too charmed to notice. Sebastian gave silent thanks to the American school system and its general distaste for teaching children foreign languages.

"W-well, er… I guess you had to… pick him up and help him around, since he doesn't seem to… know English…" the young woman concluded with a blush and a stutter, finally coming to her senses enough to pull away with a bubbly giggle. Twitchy with nerves now, she readjusted her spectacles with a trembling finger, trying to look anywhere but at Claude's still-leering face. All the same, her mouth had contorted into a coy smile; she clearly relished the attention. "J-just… just get back to work Sebastian. And I won't tell management about this."

She then flounced away before either man could respond, which was just as well, as far as Sebastian was concerned. He was faintly amused to note how over-exaggerated her movements had become, now that she thought Claude was watching: there was more of a swing to her hips and less of a stomp to her feet. Mortal women were idiots, sometimes. Not that he was complaining.

"…thank you," Sebastian muttered, either to Claude or to Madeline or to the both of them. Didn't really matter to him. But since Madeline was already out of earshot, the words of gratitude were hijacked by his brother, who savored them with a smirk. "But really. 'Spider Lover?' 'Pits of molding tar?'"

Claude's grin remained unchanged as he curled a fist around the ceramic mug by his elbow. "Insults into compliments, stubbornness into submissiveness, an end into a beginning," he retorted smugly, lifting his glass as his elder sibling slid from the booth and dusted down his clothes. "That is the Trancy—"

"Okay, you can shut up now," Sebastian drawled, pouring Claude as sloppy a cup of coffee as he could. Four large droplets landed on his brother's immaculate white cuffs; Claude hissed and swore, rubbing at the spots with his napkin before the stains stuck or his skin burned. Sebastian smiled. Sometimes, little victories made everything worth it.

**3:19 PM**

It was dark.

It was dark and it was damp— the cramped room lit by an oil-wick lantern, because only a fool would store booze in a place with windows. Outside the pocketed light of a single orange flame lay a wasteland of shadowy mountains and gloomy nothingness; for a time, he forgot that he was a demon who could see through such veils. He forgot, because his senses were otherwise occupied. His mouth was cotton-dry, his breathing shallow and ragged; he tasted alcohol on the musty air, sweat and blood and fear. The last wooden step creaked like the moldering crates beyond the narrow passage: like the mildew-ridden boxes that groaned beneath the weight of a prone, unmoving devil.

He wasn't good at flying yet, but _oh,_ he flew then— tripping over bootlegged bottles that clattered and rang like warning bells, tumbling atop a clammy chest that no longer rose or fell. The thin blanket draped over the emaciated body seemed more like a shroud than anything else; he screamed and he sobbed and he shook and he spoke, but he couldn't remember what he said—could only remember the name that fell from his lips, over and over and over again, and the lusterless chocolate gaze that watched him sweetly as he cried.

_It's an… annoying feeling, isn't it…? Almost like… hunger…_

And _yes_, it was, but _no_, it wasn't, and didn't he tell him already? He hated him, hated him, hated him—because he was his only reason to exist, the only thing that kept his heart beating. He _would not let go_, _no, no, no, you can't die—you can't I won't let you what are you doing?_ The shriek was there but lodged in his throat, unable to be swallowed or released. It was trapped, like he was, in the confines of his own body: lifeless and sprawled across the concrete floor. Blood lapped at his ear, seeping simultaneously in and out. His muscles and tendons had been severed, his brittle bones broken, his skull thoroughly shattered; he could do nothing but watch in a deadened silence as the filthy priest loomed over his butler, and the Holy Water fell in crystalline streams. The other's skin sizzled and smoked and shriveled and scarred; he begged, but not for himself—each gasp and howl and keen was for his master, groveling at the Father's feet, enduring the abuse and the agony without protest, _just_ _please, let him go, please, no more, please, me instead, please please please—_

And as his body slowly mended, as his innards roiled and writhed, he reaffirmed a solemn pact he'd made: swore and promised and vowed to himself and his servant and every other God-damned entity on this filthy rock of a fucking planet that he would never let _anything_ like this happen again. Never again. _Never _again. _Never again. Never again, never never never—_

"_Sebastian!_"

Ciel bolted upright with a wail and a screech, the squealing bedsprings still rocking in the wake of his jack-in-the-box jolt. It was, indeed, dark in this room—but it was dry and warm and scented of laundry soap, not alcohol. The floor was carpeted; the windows shuttered, but there. He tasted sweat and blood and fear alright, but their tang was nothing more than a phantom memory, just like everything else. After all, demons did not dream… They could only remember, and there was so much that the little devil would never forget.

Beneath the clench of trembling fingers, Ciel's chest felt tight; within the cage of his ribs, his heart was quivering— fluttering like the baby bird for which he'd so affectionately been nicknamed. The useless organ drummed against a row of xylophone bone, and a macabre sort of melody resulted. A base of beats, a breathy percussion… He felt faintly queasy, but that didn't keep the not-child from flopping unceremoniously backward; his fragile body bounced atop the mattress with enough force to flip his churning belly. With a muted groan, he covered stinging eyes with his wrists, cursing himself for having fallen asleep in the first place. This wasn't the time for a nap. He had a butler to be mad at. Important things to consider. Decisions to make.

_Never again._

…he could still feel the name on his lips. He wanted to speak it. Or call it.

_Sebastian…_

He wanted to talk.

**3:24 PM**

For once, Anjali Elizabeth Kadar was having an excellent day. She'd finally found a straightener that tamed her frizzy hair; a number of prototypes for her new Goodnight Raven toy line had gone over smashingly well with the test audience; and the insufferable old men that she called her board of directors could find nothing to bitch about, try as they might. (Actually, their general behavior had markedly improved since a certain event a few years prior. Anjali still wasn't sure if she should be petrified or appreciative, and for the most part tried not to think about it at all.) After a relaxing manicure and a light meal, she'd taken the rest of the day off, because it was Sophie's birthday and she wanted to pick up some flowers and wine before heading back home to surprise her girlfriend.

Smiling to herself despite being third in line at a red light, Anjali hummed and tapped her fingers along to the song playing on the radio: some soft rock classic that she heard, but wasn't really listening to. Her thoughts were too light and bubbly to stay in one place for long. "_Oh, why can't you see? You belong with me_," she murmured in time to the tune, grinning at her reflection as she checked her lipstick in the rearview mirror. Perfect, of course. Today was awesome. "_How my poor heart aches with every step you take…" _Ha, these lyrics were kind of funny, weren't they? In a creepy sort of—

…speaking of creepy. With a sudden flash of nausea and nerves, déjà vu crackled down the young woman's spine like lightening. In half a second, the day went from terrific to terrifying as the light turned green and her cell phone rang, its cheery, three-toned melody battling the steady base-line of the oldie for acoustic dominance. A car behind her pitched a honk-riddled fit when she didn't start moving the same millisecond that the light changed color; trying to swallow down the lump in her throat, Anjali simultaneously hit the gas and the appropriate button on her cell phone, facing the unknown without the comfort of first knowing her caller's name or number. But then again, maybe it wouldn't have mattered either way… "Hello, who is this?" she asked, voice hoarse with nerves but impressively calm. She'd be damned if she let some anonymous stalker get the best of her today. "Can I help you?"

"_Anji, it's me_."

Sophie. The knot in Anjali's belly vanished as if it'd never been; she hadn't realized she'd been holding her breath until it gusted out of her in a raucous burst of sound. Like a snigger. Or a sob. On the other end of the line, it was likely impossible to tell if she was laughing or crying… honestly, it was hard to tell on this end, too. Anjali wiped her eyes with a free hand, shaking her head at her own ridiculousness.

"_Anji?_" Sophie sounded concerned now; in her mind, Anjali could see the pale pink plane of skin between her lover's wide green eyes crease in anxiety. "_Sweetheart, are you okay? Did I catch you at a bad time?_"

In a way, yes. "No. No, it's fine. You just… I wasn't expecting to hear from you," the young CEO returned weakly, the trailing words decorated with a number of sardonic snickers. She didn't particularly feel like explaining her idiocy right then; perhaps later, after a few glasses of claret to sooth her frazzled nerves. _And cake. I can't forget to pick up a cake. _"So, why are you calling?" A thought occurred; Anjali frowned. "…and why didn't you use your own cell phone to do so?" Really, all of this would have been avoided had _Ojos Así _played, rather than the enigma-inducing headache that was her generic ringtone. This realization might have been enough to irk the pretty CEO had Sophie's voice not been tinged by so much sheepishness when it leaked through her bluetooth earpiece. (That, and it was her girlfriend's birthday. She couldn't get mad at her on her birthday.)

"_That's just it," _Sophie explained with a guilty giggle, likely tugging on her golden curls as she wriggled her bare toes. It was just-after half-past, so she was probably on break; Anjali absentmindedly wondered what she was painting in the studio today._ "I'm borrowing my friend Rosette's phone. See, I, er, accidentally sorta dropped mine in the toilet this morning—"_

A snort. "Again?"

"_Shut up. And, well, it's broken for good, now. I couldn't even turn it on. So after work I'm going to swing by Target really quick and grab a new one. Maybe a waterproof one._"

"Thank goodness we invested in that six month insurance plan," Anjali teased, smirking and giving her eyes a good-natured roll. As if she could somehow see the insulting gesture, Sophie squawked in righteous resentment, but her laughter was equally apparent. "And here you said it was a waste of money."

"_Well, it took me a whole year to ruin a phone, last time_."

"You're getting better at it, to be sure." With another bright beam, Anjali zipped through a yellow light and slowed down at the four-way, pausing at the stop sign just long enough to be legal before turning into the local Wal*Mart's expansive parking lot. It was mid-afternoon on a weekday, so the store, unsurprisingly, wasn't overly crowded; even still, the businesswoman had to pause for a short procession of employees hopping out of their cars and running off to start their shifts. Two were particularly slow, gossiping in mixed languages as they meandered; Anjali considered using a brief tap of her horn to encourage them to pick up the pace, but eh—she was using a cell phone while driving. She didn't really have the right to judge others' roadside decorum. "Anyway, go ahead and do that. It'll give me more time to plan tonight's… festivities." This time, the huskiness of her voice was intentional; Sophie tittered in a delight so palpable that it made Anjali's heart throb in vicarious joy. The ache pleasantly intensified when the soft, girlish squeals morphed into reminiscent laughter.

"_I do hope this year's refreshments come from a store that _I _like…_?" Sophie pressed, button nose surely scrunching in juvenile tenacity. The query was tradition now, stemming from the first birthday that they had celebrated together; Sophie hadn't derived much pleasure from Anjali's extravagant spoiling, nor the escargot and Dom Perignon that her date had purchased, though she'd sworn she had appreciated the thought. _It's just… I'm more of a beer and Dominos sorta girl. You don't need to use your money to impress me… you're impressive enough on your own._ Anjali, too, grinned at the memory, unbuckling her seatbelt as she removed her keys from the ignition.

"Only the cheapest fare for you, my love."

"_Excellent_." Thus reassured, Sophie seemed content to let the conversation wind down; she likely had to return to her craft, anyway, or give back Rosette's phone before the battery died. And it was just as well, for at that moment, a distracting, repetitive _beep_ began resounding in Anjali's ear; another call was trying to come through, and was being awfully persistent about it. Likely one of her more crotchety board members, who never seemed to read the memos she sent about leaving after lunch on those rare days that she afforded herself the luxury. "_Alrigh—beeeep—en. I'll see yo—beeeep—ter. Mãĩ tumse pyār—beeeep— kartī hū̃." _

"Mãĩ tumse pyār kartī hū̃," Anjali quietly repeated, each syllable oozing the sacred sentiment that the phrase was meant to portray. She would have liked to bask in the warmth of it all, if but for a moment, but that freakin' beeping was getting to be quite grating. Eyes that had lightly closed in reverence snapped back open; with a sigh, she mindlessly switched lines. "Yes, hello? Who is it?" the precocious president greeted impassively, gathering up her keys and wallet and throwing them into her purse. She was just about to do the same to her cell phone when she caught a glimpse of the device's illuminated screen.

[NUMBER WITHHELD]

"_Hello again, Miss Kadar._"

Fuck.

**3:38 PM**

Ciel supposed he deserved the barrage of biting, four-letter words that regaled him post-salutations; he likely hadn't made an incredibly good impression the last time they'd spoken, no matter how helpful he'd been. Funny how a little computer-hacking and a five-minute phone call could turn someone into a raging mass of paranoia. It was a concept that he mulled over in silence for a spell, flopping slovenly atop his mattress as he allowed Anjali to work out the wrath that had been accumulating in her system.

"—_ried they'll end up dead! If you think for one minute I'm going to let you kill me, or even _threaten_ to do so, you've got another thing coming, you sick freak. I've done nothing but improve this company's image, as well as our products, and—_"

Bored now. That was quite enough of that. "Miss Kadar, please. Calm down," Ciel interrupted smoothly, indolently examining his glossy nails. What few rays of golden sunlight managed to sneak into his room glinted off of their ebony tips, leaving ethereal stains of pure white. When his fingers moved, the streaks moved; for a while it was fun to watch, but he soon grew tired of that, too. His arm fell heavily against the bed, crucifix-style. "It was not my intention to alarm you. There is no need to act hysterical."

"_I AM NOT ACTING HYSTERI—_" A pause. Ciel arched an eyebrow that he knew she couldn't see, but the sentiment was portrayed equally well through a meaningful hush. Not that she really needed the cue; Anjali was a smart girl and knew irony when she heard it. "…_well, you can hardly blame me_."

It was a point that he was willing to concede. "Indeed," the little demon agreed, smirking a bit at the spackled ceiling. "Though if it will ease your fears, I do not mind admitting that I am quite pleased with your Goodnight Raven collection. I greatly anticipate purchasing the music box. And perhaps the plush pillow." He would be lying if he pretended not to derive some sick pleasure from listening to Anjali squirm, obviously disgruntled to find that he continued to keep such close tabs on her and her unreleased work. He could only imagine how much this next part would piss her off. "But this call is not about business. It is about… pleasure."

**3:41 PM**

The white-static voice— subtle and silken as unraveling satin— tickled at Anjali's ears with all of the intrinsic authority of some tribal elder. A disconcerting juxtaposition, as the speaker was obviously a child: a prepubescent boy, or a low-voiced girl. Her guess was a boy. He had hesitated, almost as if he were embarrassed, around the word "pleasure;" the CEO nearly missed the moment of vulnerability, as she was otherwise engaged in her attempts to wrestle her way out of her car. She eventually succeeded with a grunt and a snap, the door of her Jaguar barely avoiding collision with the minivan beside her.

"_Pleasure_?" Anjali then derisively echoed, clambering from the driver's seat with all of the determination of one scaling a mountainside with their bare hands. She scarcely avoided catching her skirt-suit in the door—then almost took off her own arm when trying to simultaneously grab her purse and lock up— but ultimately collapsed, cynical but whole, over the side of her vehicle. Mindless of the grime that had accumulated on the varnish, she allowed her arms and chin to drape across the round of the aluminum roof, face flush to the navy paint. "What are you, some kind of pervert?" Stupid question. Of course he was. "Well, either way. My body is off the table, whether you're planning to sacrifice it or sle—"

"_Sweet Satan, where _do _you get these gruesome ideas?_" the boy on the other end interrupted, sounding properly revolted. It was likely an act, performed to make her question her own sanity… or at least the content of her favorite TV shows and movies. And dammit, it was working. Anjali shifted, perturbed, against the veneer of her car. "_Believe me, I have absolutely no interest in your body. Not in _that _sense, anyway._" He seemed to shudder, and Anjali wasn't sure whether or not she should be insulted. But before she could come to a decision in that regard, he muttered something that sounded suspiciously like 'too much like Elizabeth,' before pressing on, determined to stay on topic. "_No, no… However, for as little as your body appeals to me, I would like to pick apart your brain for a bit._"

A beat.

"…_and before you start caterwauling again, that is a figure of speech._"

Anjali glowered at her phone, resting it within the cradle of her purse; it remained connected to her ear by way of a pseudo-umbilical cord of black wiring. "I know that!" she snapped. And she did. (…but yes, she was going to ask.) With a bodily sigh, the young woman pealed herself away from her automobile and began the trek towards the store itself, figuring that if this conversation was going to happen, she might as well do it somewhere public. Just in case. Besides, she likely looked a crazy person, flopped all over the top of her car… and she had things to do. Weird stalker boy would just have to deal with that. "Fine then. What sort of 'pleasure' does a… what're you, 11 years old?... anyway, what sort of 'pleasure' advice does one need at your age?"

A pause, pregnant with uncertainty. As the automatic doors opened with a motorized blast of air and the scent of stale popcorn, the boy seemed to debate how honest he wanted to be. And it was difficult to decipher what he decided in the end, because his response was so entirely outlandish that it could have only been the most barefaced of lies or the most uncensored of truths: "_…my boyfriend recently proposed to me. I accepted, and we are now engaged._"

Anjali froze beside the blue-plastic carts, allowing herself a moment to try and absorb this newest bout of absurdity. She half-considered laughing, or protesting, or calling the kid out— _he's what, ten? This isn't the nineteen hundreds anymore!_— but then figured that might make her look a wee bit suspicious, as well as more than a wee bit crazy. And really, in light of everything else, was this seriously the weirdest thing that could happen? No. So, whatever. Easier to go with it than to fight the loopy stalker, anyway. "…okaaaaay," she said carefully, once she had thoroughly processed this unforeseen announcement. Well, once she had processed it as thoroughly as was realistically possible. Her fingers, still unusually pale and shaky, curled around the cracked handle of the ricketiest cart she could find; as Anjali yanked it from the sticky embrace of its brethren, she hoped its squeaky, off-kilter wheel would help keep others from overhearing her… unorthodox conversation. "Congratulations, I suppose?"

"_Thank you._" Polite, curt. He still had a point that he wanted to get to. Well, good, because right now, Anjali had no idea how she was supposed to help, unless this was an issue of statutory rape. In which case, the police seemed the more appropriate choice when it came to choosing someone to call. But then, he'd said a _proposal _had been involved… "_I found this turn of events quite touching, actually. My partner and I have been together for a very long time. We had never before discussed marriage, so it was an unexpected offer, but… well, not unappreciated._"

There _had _to be a point somewhere. There had to be. Anjali resisted the urge to wave a prompting hand (who would see it, besides the other customers?) as she pushed her whiny cart along with her elbows and forearms. "But I assume there's now a problem in paradise," the young woman dully surmised, pausing by a tower of animal cracker boxes. For the hell of it, she dumped one packet of pink-and-white frosting-covered cookies into her cart. She'd likely need them after this.

In response to her prompting, the boy on the other end hummed in affirmation. But this was where his silver tongue turned to tin; with an unusual awkwardness, he chewed on his reply, waffling to such a degree that Anjali half-wondered if he really wanted her advice at all. Were it anyone else, she might have just hung up. But she did not dare mess with this kid… she'd heard about what he'd put her board members through. "_It's… it's just,_" the child faltered, the words muffled as if he were gnawing on his bottom lip, "_Until recently, I thought I… I thought I really knew him. But then I found out that he has parents_—"

Anjali frowned. "Doesn't everybody?"

Her brilliant observation went ignored.

"—_and a brother that he'd never told me about. I even knew the… man… in question, but not that they were related. And I've never even seen a picture of his parents, let alone met them. It's made me realize that there's an awful lot about my fiancé that I don't really know. And there's even more that he hasn't told me. I almost feel like… like he's marrying me just because he has to. Because he feels he's obligated to. Since he clearly didn't seem to want his family to know about us…_" He trailed off pathetically, punctuating his story with a virtually inaudible sniffle.

While listening, the young woman had engaged herself in leaning languidly against her cart and lazily skimming the nutritional facts of her animal crackers. With dainty, precise movements—as if afraid of dislodging excess calories lurking on the outside of the box— she put the treat away and focused her attention. "So what exactly are you looking for, kid?" Anjali asked blandly, suppressing the urge to sigh as she continued down the snack aisle. Maybe some Special K Cracker Chips, instead… "For someone to tell you that you should give your fiancé a second chance? Or would you rather I encourage you to call the wedding off completely?"

He was quiet for a minute. Apparently, he wasn't sure himself. "…_I suppose I just want to hear your thoughts on the matter_," the boy eventually concluded, albeit somewhat timidly. "_After all, you have committed to a rather questionable relationship yourself, have you not? Miss Sophia Elizabeth Middleford is not only a woman, but also your distant relative. Separated by generations, of course, but regardless: your great-great-great—etcetera— grandmother was the younger sister of her great-great-great—etcetera—grandfather, Edward. Correct?" _

Anjali stopped. The cart stopped. The screeching wheel stopped. Maybe time stopped, too—it was hard to tell.

"_Miss Kadar?_"

The truth falling from someone else's lips had temporarily turned her heart to stone; she could feel it drop into the pit of her stomach with a leaden _thud, _leaving her innards quaking_. _The force of it knocked all of the air from her lungs, rendering her incapable of speech. She was unable to breath. Escaping oxygen hissed between clenched teeth with the noisy cadences of a rattlesnake, but it lacked the serpent's fight. With one hand draped over her eyes, Anjali whetted dry lips with an equally dry tongue and whispered into her mouthpiece. "…you aren't going to tell anyone, are you?"

Initially, the child seemed taken aback, then insulted by the very suggestion. "_And what would I gain from exposing you?" _he rhetorically questioned, sounding legitimately curious about the assumptions that his victim had jumped to. "_You might be driven from your post if the tabloids caught wind of this. Who knows how many decades of moronic antics I would have to endure before somebody similarly competent replaced you?_"

There was probably a compliment in there. Somewhere. Anjali tried to focus on that, rather than the acidic burn of nausea as it clawed its way up the back of her throat. "So you expect me to understand your plight… because we're both… um… untraditional," she finished lamely, dragging a tired hand over her face. She was personally comfortable with her orientation, but still couldn't bring herself to say the word aloud… For professional reasons. Never knew who could be watching. "Is that right?"

"_Yes_."

The response was simple, succinct, short. Then he waited patiently for whatever brilliant insight he seemed to think Anjali possessed. No pressure, or anything—she just needed to play the part of a couple's therapist for the insane child-genius stalking her company. That could only end well.

"Okay, then. Let me make sure I've got this right," the young woman groaned, jamming her eyes shut as she pinched at the bridge of her nose. To her right, a portly grandmother attempted to reach around her and nab a can of creamed corn, but gave up this quest when her struggling and straining and polite coughing did nothing to garner Anjali's attention. With a huff, she and her basket waddled off towards the frozen vegetables. "What this boils down to is that you're mad because your fiancé didn't want to introduce you to his family?"

The boy didn't agree or disagree with the paraphrasing. He merely grumbled: "_I dislike feeling like a secret._"

"Well, did he even know that you _wanted_ to meet his family? Has he ever met yours?"

"_I have no family. They're dead._" There was no emotion in his voice. It was impossible to tell whether this was because he cared too little or cared too much. Either way…

"Maybe he was trying not to hurt your feelings, then," Anjali speculated with a shrug, finally finding the energy to begin puttering down the aisles again. She steered her way unseeingly past rows and rows of packets and parcels, cans and cartons, powders and solids. Nothing about this situation seemed real— not even the food. "Or, you know, rub it in your face that his parents are alive. And in any case, why should his family factor into his feelings for you?"

"_Perhaps he was hiding me because he is ashamed_."

"Then he wouldn't have bothered asking you to marry him," she countered, turning a corner and heading towards the bakery. She mustn't forget a cake… "Look. No one acts like their true selves around their parents. Everyone keeps secrets from them—and usually, those secrets are about the things they like, or even love. Like… like…" Anjali struggled grandly for an instant, fingers wiggling as she strained her brain for a proper comparison. "Like porn. Or narcotics."

An electric silence, punctured by the popping of a long-distance connection.

"…_are you comparing our relationship to hookers and crack cocaine?_"

Alright, those were poor examples. "The point is," Anjali continued fervently, fighting her way past two small children throwing tantrums before the cookie display, "That point is that… that… Well, I know where you're coming from."

Like most bursts of vigor and energy, this one faded fast; the executive blew out her cheeks and wilted a bit, catching a glimpse of her own frosted reflection in the plastic coverings of the premade cakes. Before anyone could start to question why she was just standing there and ogling sweets, the young woman bent low and pretended to be searching for the pastry with the most sugar-candies or frosted flowers. In actuality, she was just trying to cover up the sound of her own voice; she already knew that she'd be buying Sophie a chocolate cheesecake. And strawberry sauce. Couldn't forget that, either. "Because of my position in the public eye, I can't be as… official with Sophie as I'd like. And her parents don't approve of her 'life choices,' so I doubt I'll ever meet them. Sometimes it feels a lot like hiding and being dishonest, but we're never like that with each other. Not where our feelings are concerned. And at the end of the day, isn't that what's most important? Not what other people think, or even if they're aware, but that the two of you are happy. Even Romeo and Juliet didn't let their parents know what they were doing, and they're the most famous lovers in history."

"_Romeo and Juliet were less 'lovebirds' and more over-excitable, lust-riddled idiots with a death-wish_," the boy mumbled, caustic and vexed. But the bitterness sounded a trifle forced, and the reply itself distant. Maybe she was actually… helping? She pushed the issue a bit more, hoping to drive her argument home.

"I don't really know anything about you, kid—" _besides the fact that you're hella scary_, Anjali mentally added, but didn't dare say aloud— "or about the guy you're engaged to. But I do know that you must mean _something_ to him if he decided to propose, and he must mean _something_ to you if you decided to accept. Maybe what you need to do now is hang up with me (please) and call your fiancée. After all, communication is key; it might have even saved those over-excitable, lust-riddled idiots you're so dismissive of. That's probably all that the two of you need—to sit down and talk this out."

The child on the other end pondered this. In fact, he pondered it for so long that Anjali was half-convinced he'd already hung up, leaving her to gabble into empty air like a fool. Faintly insulted, the young CEO was just about to do the same when he broke the hush with a crackled intake of breath. Anjali's finger came to a screeching halt over the "disconnect" button, then swiftly backtracked to her side. _That _was close. No need to incur the wrath of an unstable creature like him…

"…_perhaps you're right_," he then assessed, with a sound of undulating bedsprings. Anjali was suddenly assailed by a mental image of a little boy rolling around in a racecar-shaped bed; somehow, it made the situation funnier and all the more petrifying. "_I suppose talking might… and it's not as if I have ever even asked about his past, prior to this. Maybe I am not being completely fair._" The child hummed to himself, as if steeling his own resolve. Anjali gave up shifting through tiered treats and just grabbed the cheesecake she'd come for. "_Thank you, Miss Kadar. Your advice has been most helpful, just as I knew it would be_."

Anjali wasn't sure how to feel about his apparent confidence in her. Mostly, she just found the whole situation disconcerting. "Well, I guess that makes us even, then," she nonetheless rejoined, moving away from the cakes before she caught a chill from the freezer. "Since you did help me with my board. Albeit in a somewhat controversial way."

"_Well, what _isn't_ controversial about us, really?_" There was laughter in his retort—lurking just beneath the surface of his courteous lilt. Serpentine and devious; a real devil in disguise, to use a trite phrase. Anjali's lips pursed as he giggled like one of those children in horror movies. _Omen_, or something. Though now that she thought about it, she doubted _that_ boy ever giggled. "_You _are _a delight, miss. I do hope that this is not the last time we speak._"

"That makes one of us, then."

Another chuckle. He didn't seem overly offended by her circumlocutory comments. "_Do wish Miss Sophie a very happy birthday for me, would you? There's a good girl._"

And without giving Anjali the chance to so much as squawk in protest (or horror or annoyance or whichever other of a million emotions might prompt her to make a peeved noise), the boy hung up, effectively leaving her alone in the middle of a crowd. In the distance, the toddlers continued to scream; to her left, that same portly grandmother was attempting to slink around and grab a packet of cupcakes. (Once again, she was forced to surrender in a huff.) For a long string of seconds, the young CEO simply stood in a sightless daze, listening to her dial tone as if that might provide her with some sort of answer. But that hope soon proved futile; she turned off her cell phone with a bit more force than necessary and ripped the Bluetooth piece from her ear.

"…good luck to you then, I guess," she mumbled (seemingly to herself) before snapping out of her reserve when she remembered where she was. Store. Right. Needed candles. Strawberry sauce. Flowers. Wine. Yes—alcohol.

Lots and lots of alcohol.

**6:29 PM**

The call ended. He closed his cell phone. The ginger click of plastic parts sliding and slipping over one another filled the empty room. And for a long, long time, it was the only noise to be heard; Ciel did not speak, or move, or breathe. In his daze, he forgot even to _blink_, as if in some strange effort to conserve energy for the tasks ahead. Maybe it worked, maybe it didn't—all he knew was that when he finally heard the front door open with a tinny jangle of keys, he was ready.

That's not to say he left his room. Rather, he waited—as ever—atop the warm comfort of his bed, cataloguing his fiancé's movements as each telling sound reverberated through the rest of the house. A clatter of metal on porcelain; the keys had been tossed into the bowl on the counter. The muted murmur of linoleum and unseen floorboards as a pair of stocking feet shuffled through the dining room. Footsteps that'd been muffled by carpet and cloth grew steadily louder, closer, with each passing instant and staccato heartbeat—until, quite suddenly, the scuffling vanished entirely. It was replaced by a groan of wood as a curved back fell against the door, landing with a ginger clunk of ridged vertebrate and a flutter of hair. The noise dragged (as did the crepitation of a shirt slithering over timber) as Sebastian lowered himself to the ground, like a sentry keeping watch.

The devil beyond the door said nothing. Perhaps he'd given up. Or maybe he was waiting. It was, after all, Ciel's turn to make a move. The tiny demon sucked in a low breath, steeling himself, as the tension that'd been crackling in the air coiled and curled deep, deep down, taking root in his lungs. It was an unpleasant sensation—that electricity, that heaviness— and there was only one way to rid himself of it.

"…do you remember Elizabeth?"

The question was barely more than a whisper. Pin-drop quiet—would have been wholly impossible to hear, had Sebastian been anybody else. But he _was_ Sebastian, so of course he heard. There was a faint rustling as the unseen butler straightened, taken aback by inquiry. Or he may have just been startled to find that he was being spoken to at all.

"Yes," Sebastian promptly answered, voice hoarse but firm. "I could never forget Lady Elizabeth. She was so important to you, young master."

Legs crossed and head lowered, Ciel hummed in agreement, slender fingers plucking and picking at the yarn ties that dotted the vibrant expanse of his quilt. A house-warming gift, it'd been. To welcome Ciel back from the Father's. Sebastian, Finny, Ronald, and the Spears had made it together. Georgina had rolled on it. It smelt like everyone he loved. "She was my first fiancée," the once-earl muttered, his jaw giving an audible creak as he mechanically worked the bones. The cotton filaments frayed against his pallid skin: the threads were worn and rough and exuded the perfume of his family. (Or, in the case of Grelle, his family member's perfume.) "We were going to marry. I would have married her. We would have had children. We would have been happy."

Sebastian said nothing, but Ciel thought he heard him suck down a shallow breath.

"I kissed her once," the not-child continued, gaze lackluster as the memories returned to him: played like a reel of film behind his eyes. "Or maybe she kissed me. I can't remember who leaned down first, anymore. Or how old we were. But we kissed." Coal-blue lashes fluttered—flicked once, brisk and efficient—as if to wipe the recollection away. And indeed, it cleared his stare; when he lifted it towards the entrance, his azure irises were animated once more, deep and blue and probing. "How about that, Sebastian? Does that make you jealous?"

There was no response from the other side of—well, it felt like the other side of the world, right now. So close, and yet so far; the butler considered the query without moving so much as a muscle in his face. Ciel wondered what sort of expression he wore, right then. But not even his response provided an answer to that mystery; his words were as lifeless as the door itself.

"I knew—and know—that I have no reason to be jealous of Lady Elizabeth, young master," Sebastian droned. With a low _thump_ that was stifled by fabric and flesh alike, his elbow settled atop his kneecap; Ciel imagined that he was idly examining the tattoo of rotten epidermal splayed across the back of his hand. Maybe regretting it. Maybe admiring it. Maybe apathetic to it, at this point. "Why do you bring that up now?"

Why did he? The not-boy moved restlessly atop his mattress, his shifting serenaded by a chorus of metallic squeaking and whining springs. "I… I guess… I guess I'm trying to explain how I feel," Ciel mumbled, watching as the wool that he played with was shorn to fibers, thinner and thinner. And yet the knot remained, so the quilt stayed intact. There was probably a metaphor there somewhere; he was just too lazy to find it, right then. "I'm trying to get you to understand how I feel by making it… as accessible as I can. By way of what you've felt. But maybe that won't work, after all…"

The small devil yanked a fraction harder on his makeshift toy. The force of his tugging lifted a section of the blanket from the bed, forming a squat tent that soon crumpled in upon itself; within seconds, it had collapsed into a collection of wrinkles and folds. Sebastian used that time to mull things over.

"So part of the reason that you are angry with me… is because you are jealous?" The former servant seemed a trifle perplexed by this, as if trying to determine how Lizzie and Claude could ever invoke the same sort of emotions in a person. In his defense, Ciel supposed his comparison was a bit of a stretch… or at least appeared so, initially. And perhaps he hadn't phrased things particularly well to start off with…

"Maybe not jealousy exactly, in this case, but something like it," Ciel clarified, shoulders hunched inwards and head dipping low as if he wanted to curl back into a ball. Because this was _difficult_, this was _discomfiting, _but no, this wasn't the time for that… "Like Lizzie. You and I were never a couple when I was alive, but still—looking back, it almost feels like I… like I cheated, or something. Betrayed you, in some way, because you _were_ a part of my life back then, even if you were playing a different role. This is sort of the same feeling, I think. It rather feels like you cheated, too—even though we weren't 'together' then, you had a relationship with someone I knew back in my lifetime, and you never bothered to tell me about it."

Sebastian's lips had curled back in disgust. Ciel could _hear _his disgruntled appearance, as if 'wrinkled nose' and 'downturned mouth' were cues for the ears, not the eyes. "I am not sure I approve of your phrasing, my lord," the elder devil intoned. "It sounds remarkably like allegations of incest."

Though he knew his butler couldn't see it, Ciel made an exasperated gesture with his free hand: waved it in concentric circles as if to physically move the conversation along. "Stop being so literal," he demanded, proud that he was able to keep all but the faintest hint of frustration from polluting the brusque words. "Pretend for a minute that Claude _wasn't_ your brother. Or hell—we don't even need to be talking about him, specifically. Or even your parents."

"Young master?" Sebastian sounded downright bewildered, now.

And Ciel couldn't blame him. He wasn't being very clear, was he? Well, that was understandable; it was tricky to explain concepts that he barely grasped himself. But he had to try. Things couldn't go on like this. "It's the idea that… that there have been others in your life," the little demon finally managed after a few moments of struggling. But the battle bore fruit; even as the anxious explanation first tripped from his tongue, he felt as if he'd done it—brushed his fingertips against the core concern, and was now fighting to seize it fully. "People… demons, whatever… who I don't know about. Creatures who were… _are_… important to you. Maybe even as important as me. Or _more _important."

Another heavy hush, as much a blanket as the one on which Ciel was sitting. The not-child had to consciously remove his hand from the tangles of yarn, afraid he might soon start worrying holes into the coverlet itself.

"…little one," Sebastian finally murmured, sounding strangely like he wanted to laugh. Not out of mirth, perhaps, or even pure frustration, but some uncomfortable combination of the two—something helpless, hopeless. "In the _millennia_ that I have existed— during the thousands upon thousands of years that I have walked this Earth, centuries before even the birth of your ancestor's ancestors… surely you _must _realize that, in all of that time, I'd have had at least one or two relationships prior to our meeting."

Well, when he phrased it like _that… _Feeling very much like a moron, Ciel flushed darkly, pulling his legs to his chest and half-hiding his embarrassed countenance behind his thighs. "…just one or two?" he lightly pressed, not allowing himself to be hopeful. Which wound up being a wise decision.

"You'll notice I attached no numerical suffix. And that I used the phrase 'at least.'"

"…right." The smaller demon decided he didn't particularly want to know. Besides, he could hardly blame his fiancé for the choices he had made so, so long ago; nobody could have foreseen what would eventually happen between them. If Ciel wanted to be angry, his anger at least had to be justified. Fair. "Okay. But at least… there's been no one else since we _met_, correct?"

He waited for an affirmative sort of response. It never came.

"…Sebastian." Brow furrowing, eyes narrowing, Ciel propped himself up on his knees, leaning forward—closer to the door. Then he realized how ridiculous that must have looked and scrambled off the mattress entirely, padding over to the entrance with a glower on his face so dangerous that it would have sent any who saw it fleeing in the opposite direction. Unfortunately, no one could actually see it. "Sebastian, who—?" A thought occurred to him. He almost threw up. "Sweet Satan, it was that cat, wasn't it? The one you kept out in the gard—"

"Ugh, _no_!" At least his servant seemed properly mortified. It was a small consolation, but it _was _something. "Of course not! _Honestly_, Ciel! First you accuse me of incest, then bestiality? Just what sort of demon do you think I _am_…?" Sebastian gagged, so perfectly appalled that his master began to feel the first inklings of guilt; he'd just opened his mouth to sputter some sort of apology when the elder devil hesitated, then hastened to mumble: "Though, um, coincidentally… that is, speaking of beasts… or one specific Beast, as it were…"

In an instant, the pieces clicked into place. Close as he was to the entry, now, Ciel knew the moment that Sebastian tensed, flinching as if expecting punishment or chastisement or some other onslaught of wrath… but there was only a subdued _thud _as the once-boy's forehead fell against the plank of painted wood.

"…what am I going to do with you?" the not-child groaned, palms falling against the barrier with an equally dull _thump_. It wasn't entirely clear whether the phrase was just that—a trite old idiom—or a legitimate question; with a nervous twitch, Sebastian glanced upward (where Ciel's face would be, could he see it), and responded with a feeble: "Marry me, I hope…?"

The return elicited a dry snort from the other devil, half-irritation and half-vague amusement. "You disobeyed a direct order."

Sebastian cringed at the tired certainty of his tone. At the distance it put between them. "True," he weakly agreed, lifting a single finger in preparation for rebuttal. "But did I ever _really_ follow them, back then?"

Ciel's head fell against the partition with a heavier sound, this time. Like Sebastian after spending a whole day with Grelle. "But how can I _trust_ you?" the once-earl desperately demanded, his claws scraping down the whitewashed wood that separated him from his partner. His head was hanging low, the arch of his own body smothering the thick, wet sniffling sounds that were squirming around in his throat—clinging to and coating the words that tumbled from his mouth. "If I couldn't trust you back then, when our conduct was so much simpler—how can I trust you _now_? And if I can't trust you, how can we get married? Married is built on trust, isn't it…?" Another battering, and the sounds of a struggle: an internal war, but no less fierce than any other kind. Obscured talons dug ever-deeper into the pliant timber of the door, adding a unique array of carvings and designs. "There's so much you haven't told me… so much that I don't know. It's… it's frightening, Sebastian. It's like you're a whole different person, now… a stranger. You're like a stranger to me…"

The assertion stung with the palpability of a slap to the face; Sebastian swung bodily around, scrambling to his feet as his own hands landed heavily upon the door. "But I am _not_ a stranger," he protested in a hiss, fingers scrabbling over the barrier as if in search for purchase. Something to cling to. To steady him. For the first time, he truly considered forcing the entryway open and— but no, no, that wouldn't help, it wouldn't. "I am the same devil I have been for… for over _two hundred_ _years_, Ciel! All this time we've been together, any changes that I have undergone you've been there to witness! You _do _know me. You know the _current _me. And that's the me that you're marrying— the me of _now_, the me of the _future_. The past is just that: the past. Behind us. And if you'd ever shown even the slightest bit of interest in my past, young master, you _know_ I would have told you about it. But you never have… until today, at least," he amended in afterthought, vehemence weakening and withering into a sense of vulnerability. A feeling of defenselessness— of exposing his heart and soul completely, only to be met by blank stares—that grew stronger and stronger as the minutes dragged on longer and longer, and nothing happened. Ciel did not speak. The door remained locked. Neither moved. Neither breathed. The younger pondered in passing if they would stay like that forever (they were certainly capable of doing so), but a few moments later, Sebastian released a sigh of submission.

"…do you wish to call off the wedding, my lord?" he quietly queried, careful to make certain that the calm acceptance in his voice wholly masked the sound of his heart breaking: of it shattering into shards and slivers inside of his aching chest. "If that is your desire, I would understand. I would not be insulted." He paused for a spell, as if waiting for some sort of reply… When the silence persisted, he chose to fill it with a wry chuckle, humorless and weary. "Nothing seems to be going right, does it…? Not since I proposed. First Grelle took over, then Claude and Alois showed up, then this whole debacle with my family…" The butler blew out his cheeks once more, swallowing back a halfhearted string of curses. "Even still, all that matters to me, baby bird, is you. You and your happiness. You are all that I think about, all that I need. There isn't enough room in my head or my heart for anyone else. Even if we do not wed, that truth will not change… will never change. Even if you ask me to leave, I will continue to love you from afar."

That caught Ciel's attention. "_No!_" the not-boy interjected—quickly, a little too quickly— as he choked on some sort of lump in his throat. A gulp of air, a bitty whimper; he seemed to be drawing all of his support and strength from the door. "No… I am not asking you to leave. I do not _want_ you to leave, Sebastian. I don't want to call the wedding off, either. No."

Despite the gravity, confusion, sorrow, and pain that poisoned the little devil's tone, his fiancé could not help but extract a shining ray of _hope_ from the retort. _He still wants to wed. He still…_ "But something has to change, Sebastian," Ciel continued in a rush, effectively cutting his servant's thoughts short. "Something has to give. It all just feeds into itself, you know? I don't feel like I'm marrying you anymore—not just because you suddenly seem so… different… but because this wedding isn't even about us. Hasn't been about _us_ for ages. I want to marry _you_—the you I _know_—not one of Grelle's cheesy fantasies. I need some form of control over things. I need some way to… to _know_ you again. To understand _us _again. Some way to start over. But all Grelle is letting me do is choose my own outfit…" A touch of bitterness, of resentment. Sebastian frowned, yearning to hold his master…

"Would you like me to talk to her?" he inquired, coaxing. Soothing. Accommodating. Anything he could do to help, anything to feel like he was taking some sort of effective action… But he'd barely gotten the question out before Ciel began to move again— scalp scraping against the barrier as he shook his head violently no.

"Stay. Stay and talk to _me_," the little demon begged, in a husky plea that leeched the strength from both his and Sebastian's legs. Almost as one, they fell to shaking knees—pressed themselves to the damn door as if trying to forcibly push through it. Ciel could unlock it, if he wanted. He could open it, if he so wished. And he _did_ want, and he _did_ wish, but he couldn't, not yet. Not until he was sure he'd recognize the devil beyond—the creature on whom his own existence so dreadfully dependent. If he saw him too soon, if he looked into those eyes and no longer knew them, then… then… "I… I want you to tell me all of those things that just—that just 'never managed to make it' into conversations. All of them. Tell me about your past. Tell me about those… other relations. Tell me about _our_ relationship. Tell me about everything. And when I feel like I know you again…"—A deep breath, held and exhaled— "…I'll let you in."

Silence. A curious sort of silence: full of musings that Ciel couldn't grasp, and memories that he had no claim on. That quiet, so foreign and familiar, stretched onward for such a long while, the once-child was half-afraid that Sebastian had gotten lost in his thoughts— had forgotten about him. But then, with a cryptic pout, the butler spoke once more.

"I never said I wasn't, you know."

The unexpected declaration caught Ciel off-guard. So off-guard, in fact, that for a moment he almost sounded like himself again: distress temporarily replaced by fleeting irritation and mounting perplexity. "What're you talking about?" he demanded, snuffling down the last of his unshed tears.

Sebastian offered a thin grin, the corners of each lip held aloft by ancient annoyance and modern-day amusement. "Lady Elizabeth," he explained simply, leaning more comfortably against the door. After all, it now seemed apparent that they were going to be there for some time… "I said I knew I did not need to be jealous of her. I never said, however, that I wasn't."

His master considered this. "Were you?"

"…occasionally."

Sebastian's reward for his honesty was a watery smile. He couldn't see it, of course, but he knew it was there… and that was an excellent start.

"Go on."

**6:29 AM**

"How many of these are we making?"

"My hope is to complete about one hundred."

"…how many people have been officially invited?"

"Eleven."

"…oh." Sitting side by side around the paper-strewn glass table, William looked slowly from the silver marker in his hand to the large stack of black tag board before him, looming like a certain tower in Piza. As he mentally followed the trajectory of the tilt, his golden eyes drifted towards the ruby-colored vision that was his wife, Grelle, who was humming some mundane ditty about 'dudes looking like ladies' as she addressed parchment envelopes. His mind already full of equations at this point, Will rolled the two numbers that had started it all around in his head, then asked the question than any sane person would have posed: "Why are we making one hundred, again?"

"_Because_, Willy," the redhead returned with a patient scoff, acting as if he'd just inquired the answer to something as blatantly self-evident as how many toes he had on his right foot, or in what year the War of 1812 was fought. "Even though Sebastian-darling and the brat are… _resisting_, let's say… all of the supernatural world is in a tizzy about this event! My cell phone has been ringing off the hook for days~"

William briefly considered pointing out that cell phones didn't have hooks—that was one of the perks to using them—but realized at the last moment that his companion was being metaphorical. Oh yes. Well, good thing he'd hadn't said anything, then; he would have looked even more ridiculous than he already did, sitting there in his pajamas and bathrobe. For appearance's sake, Will attempted to find the energy to give a crap—to feel stupid about the whole exchange, to appear like anything more than a comatose robot— but it was a wasted effort. It was too early to care. What time was it, again? And why were they there? Those seemed like pretty good questions, too…

But before he had a chance to voice them, Grelle had pushed a number of completed envelopes his way, singing about how he should 'fill 'em up to the top.' Glancing at the thick, homemade packets, he noticed that a good number of them shared the same address—the Undertaker and the Trancy family, for instance—but each creature had been assigned their own individual invitation. That rather seemed like a waste of paper and postage to Will. Once again, he opened his mouth to point this out, but in the end all he did was let some air escape by way of a blustery sigh. Why bother? They'd just waste more time and resources correcting the results of her enthusiasm… and she'd undoubtedly whine and mope if the number of letters dipped below the double digits. So rather than speak, Will simply stuffed and sealed, leveling his attentive wife a sidelong glance. She, in turn, continued grinning happily, watching him work with her chin balanced in her palms.

"Feels good, doesn't it?" she beamed, squirming with self-satisfaction as her husband carefully sealed each invitation. While ferreting through Sebastian's desk drawers, Grelle had discovered an old stamp of the Phantomhive crest and had insisted that they use it, despite her inability to locate any proper sealing wax. In its place, she'd found some unused Yankee candles and had melted them into a liquid solution that had succeeded in getting the job done… albeit in a messy, greasy, chalky sort of way. The room (and the invitations in questions) now smelt like a strange combination of Candied Apple, Balsam and Cedar, and Evening Air (whatever _that_ odor entailed), but it was all they'd been able to locate on such short notice. It'd have to do. "Getting work done, I mean."

William tried to grunt flippantly in response, but it came out as a sort of yawn. He'd gotten home that morning at three; overtime was going to kill him… Rather, it would have, were a death god able to die at the hands of an inanimate concept. Either way, he could do with a sugar-boost, and soon. When would Wendell's open…? Which reminded him… "I just hope our efforts aren't wasted," the reaper grumbled, subtly checking his watch. Damn. Still another half-hour. "Are the demon spawn even talking to one another, right now?"

Grelle made a show of ridiculing her partner's foolishness. "Well, of _course _not, silly," she chastised, giggled as she bopped him on the nose. Shaking her head in a merry sort of way, she turned her attention to her next job, now that she was done with the envelopes: folding (more) calligraphy-adorned inserts. With twitching fingers, the reaper sandwiched the rice paper inside of decorative ebony cards that likely wouldn't get used. "They're asleep. How could they talk if they're asleep?"

The redhead trilled another chipper laugh, and William scowled. Reached out, covered her hands with his own. The delicate paper she'd been working with got caught in the crossfire; with a crackle and a crunch, it crumpled beneath his palm, and when Grelle turned to glare at him, it wasn't initially apparently if she was going to cry, or if she was going to yell at her husband for destroying a perfectly good wedding invite. Thankfully (kind of) she wound up doing the former.

"Oh…I know that isn't what you meant," Grelle sniffled, bright green eyes as wet as dewy grass. With a reluctant jerk, she removed her hands from beneath William's; the ruined paper was brought to her face, and she blew her nose into it with the daintiest _honk_ as she could manage. Waste not, and all that… Once she'd thrown the improvised tissue away, Grelle nestled her head against her husband's shoulder and coiled her arms around him. "I just feel so _awful_ about everything. Like… like it's partially _my_ _fault_. Oh, William, it was _terrible_— I've never seen the brat look so _broken_ before, not even when I… well, not even back in the day. And Sebastian-darling! All alone and doubled over on the kitchen floor, close to tears… My heart shattered in that moment, William, it truly did. I simply cannot _bear _to think about them calling off the wedding, or breaking up, but… but in that moment, it seemed like a legitimate possibility. I can't even imagine how they would make—"

"My, but aren't you two here early?"

With the muted sound of a door gently closing, Sebastian all but skipped into the kitchen, beaming at his guests like a child on Christmas morning. Or a deranged psycho nutjob. Same difference, really. Sparing a moment to playfully muss Grelle's styled hair, the devil chuckled to himself as he bustled around the kitchen making tea, going so far as to _hop atop the counter_ and swing his slippered feet as he waited for the water to boil. After smoothing down his jeans, Sebastian laced his hands and allowed them to fall between his knees, grinning at his reflection in the metal teapot. As he did so, he couldn't help but notice the distorted expressions worn by the friends behind him—expressions that seemed no less distorted when he turned 'round to regard them, almost disturbingly jovial.

"…yes?" the butler happily prompted, looking from stunned face to stunned face with a sunshine-smile that would put even _Finny_ to shame. When the pot on the stove began to sputter and hiss, Sebastian hopped off the island and silenced it before it could begin emitting its ear-splitting whistles. Apparently, that was a task he'd assigned to himself: he whistled a jolly melody as he dipped a packet of lemon-flavored herbs and spices into a mug of steaming water, looking so utterly content that he might have been staring in a commercial for Stash. Grelle and William continued to gawk.

Such emotional extremes couldn't exist in harmony for long; Sebastian's lively expression faltered a fraction as their leering persisted past the point of sagacity, following him as he slid into a seat at the table. "…what?" he finally ordered, glancing from the couple to his drink as if that were somehow the offending agent. "For badness' sake, what is it? Look, I know it's a bit odd for me to use a bag rather than leaves, but I've got places to be this morni—"

"_Damn_, that must have been _some_ make-up sex!" Grelle cooed, eyes wide behind the plastic rims of her glasses. The devil, in response, choked on a swallow of tea—pounding on his chest as if to restart his heart. "What'd you do? I mean, besides the brat. Obviously. Did you dig out that old Kama Sutra scroll that Agni gave you, or something? No?" The death god tilted her head, flummoxed by this revelation, as Sebastian coughed into a napkin, shaking his head. "Well, you must have done _something_ amazing…"

Pink in the face (for multiple reasons, now), the demon gave a squirmy shrug. "I just… talked about my feelings," he informed, flush darkening as he spoke to the bottom of his cup. "That's all."

Grelle blinked once. Slowly. Looked torn for a minute, as if not sure she believed him—_a _man_ talking about his _feelings_…? Surely that must be a…a euphemism or_… or had Hell frozen over? She'd forgot to check the weather channel that morning… If nothing else, it had to be a downright— But then she remembered that Sebastian was a _devil_, and no, devils _couldn't_ lie. Beside her, Will indulged in an uncouth snort, similarly dubious. But in the end, what choice did they have but to believe his claims?

"…well. That certainly _is_ amazing," the reaper lightly confirmed, still hesitant to fully trust such a statement. But at the same time, did it really matter? Just so long as Sebastian was happy again… (Though it might have been nice to steal some sex tips from him. Ah well. Next time, perhaps.) "So I guess all of the thought and energy that we've been putting into making these invitations won't have been wasted after all~" The realization rose within Grelle like a leaky balloon: bright, buoyant, boisterous. Even her voice got a bit squeaky with elation, as if infused with helium. "I'm so glad we decided to make them!"

Sebastian arched an eyebrow, as if just-noticing the envelopes and cards scattered across his table. Which might have actually been the case, despite the fact that he'd been using a number of them as temporary coasters. "…are these even necessary?" he inquired, skeptical but polite, as his gaze darted from the invitations to his friends. "I mean, the wedding is tomorrow night… everyone who is coming already knows about it." He paused, sensing something intrinsically _wrong_ with that statement; mug pressed to his lips, the devil reconsidered his previous declaration. Oh yes. "Check that, even those who _aren't _coming already know."

"Well…" Grelle returned in something close to a wheedle, tone oozing the eternal optimism that no one and nothing could ever seem to kill (due in great part to her being immortal), "I _was _hoping that we still might add a few more people to the invite list… Some of our friends from the department, perhaps... A demon or five... Maybe even a flock of angels. Your father—"

"Go ahead."

"—knows a few, right? We're all adults here—I mean, our business ventures might conflict a touch, but there's no reason we can't get along civilly during times of celebr— what?" Grelle froze. William had already frozen. Sebastian tipped his cup back, silently slurping up the final dregs of his beverage. Nonchalant as you please, the demon lowered his drink and licked the last drops of lemon from his lips, once again looking from reaper to reaper as if they'd magically become Siamese twins. "_What?_" he again demanded, exasperation escalating each time he was forced to use that word. "Did you want for me to tell you no?"

"I… well, _no_," Grelle retorted honestly, still feeling two-steps behind and incredibly lost. It was as if they'd all been playing a game of tag that had suddenly turned to hide-and-go-seek, and no one had bothered to tell her about the switch. "But… you both were so adamant the other day about keeping the wedding small. What happened?"

Sebastian offered another roll of his shoulders, leaning comfortably back in his chair. "You _will_ still need to keep it somewhat small, as everyone will need to fit in this apartment," he clarified, wagging a finger as if to drive the point home. "But Ciel and I decided last night that opening our door to a few others might not be so bad. More people to pay witness to our relationship, as it were. A bigger statement made. I am not afraid to let the world know that I love Ciel, and he is not afraid to make it clear that he loves me. So go on, Grelle," the devil encouraged, a small smirk toying with his uplifted mouth. "Help us inform the Realms and those residing in them that we're staying together. We're giving you an even longer leash, as it were… though _no_, we're still not going to let you use _Every Breath You Take_," he added, not failing to notice how the redhead had all but leapt in anticipation, eyes glittering in prelude to a predictable question. Her eagerness heartlessly murdered before it'd even had a chance to be born, the reaper succumbed to a moment of pouting, but then perked back up again when she remembered something.

"Well, if I can't use _that _song," Grelle segued, twisting to the side and rustling through the contents of her handbag, "what about one of these? Pre and post ceremony, I mean—something for the guests to dance and socialize to." With a flourish, she extracted her beloved notepad, flipped a few pages over, and handed a complied list of music to Sebastian. Looking doubtful, the demon accepted the pad and skimmed the first few titles—glanced up at his keen friend—skimmed a few more— exchanged a look with Will— and then tossed the list atop the table, strained voice catching on skeptical laughter.

"You _must_ be kidding."

"What? Why? What is it?" Grelle frowned as Sebastian sniggered, shaking his head in utter disbelief. She, in turn, looked back down at her list; perhaps she'd drawn an amusing doodle in the corner and had forgotten about it? But no, everything seemed in perfect order— nothing funny about it. Except apparently there was. "What's wrong?

Sebastian rifled through the yellow papers again, arching his brow in a mocking display of cynicism. Surely this was part of the stunt. She couldn't possibly have meant… Even _she _couldn't be that dense. Could she? Grelle's perplexity had weathered the barrage of Sebastian's belittling looking just as genuine as it ever had. This had really…? Could she have not noticed…? Just—

"Oh… come _on_, Grelle!" With another lilted chortle (unable to believe that this wasn't some grand joke), the demon swept a hand over the handwritten catalogue, leaning back in his chair as if to get a better view of the insanity before him. "You can't be serious! All of these songs are about rape!"

Grelle spluttered and huffed as if he'd reached out and hit her. She gasped, affronted; her hand flew to her bosom as her eyes and mouth mimicked one another, growing round and wide. "I beg your pardon!"

"Well, look at this!" In parody of Grelle's usual elegant flamboyance, Sebastian began making his point by way of (ironically) pointing. "_Maggie May_, by Rod Stewart? _My Sharona,_ by The Knack?"

"…why on earth would anyone play George Michael's _Father Figure _at a wedding?" William muttered, visibly bewildered, as he craned his neck to read the list himself. Were this not so dire (or, perhaps, ridiculous) a situation, Sebastian might have spared a moment to fully appreciate the cataclysmic wonder and awe intrinsic to the realization that _he and Will had just agreed on something_… but there was no time for that. Instead, Sebastian merely made a grand gesture in the male reaper's direction, as if to emphasize his own argument. Grelle, of course, glowered at them both.

"You're just making issues up, now!" she protested, looking down her list and mentally reaffirming how lovely and innocuous the titles were. "_Possession_, by Sarah McLachlan, for instance— it's entirely reminiscent of you and the brat! Romantic, enigmatic…"

"She wrote it using the letters a stalker sent to her," Sebastian droned, roughly shoving the notebook away from his body. Then he crossed his arms and put his foot down—literally and metaphorically. "We're not using it."

"Not using what?"

With a less-gentle slam of a door, Ronald appeared—looking very much like a hip, bespectacled Santa Clause, what with his slimming red t-shirt and large white satchel. The bag, big and bulging and nearly bursting at the seams, had been slung over his shoulder; he lugged it all the way to the linoleum before allowing it to slide down his spine with a kitchen-shaking _crash_.

"Grelle is in top, creepy-song-picking form," Sebastian informed coolly, eyeing the suspicious looking rucksack that Ronald had almost-certainly dented his tiles with. But Grelle's senselessness wasn't the issue, anymore; there was something even more potentially-dangerous to deal with now. And he addressed that new concern with his usual urbane eloquence: "What the freak is that? It isn't Christmas yet, is it?" He looked towards Grelle, as if to confirm that six months hadn't passed in the span of a single night. She shook her head, equally puzzled.

"If it was, I'd have added _Baby, It's Cold Outside_ to my list of songs…"

The devil's forehead reacquainted itself with his palm.

"What? Oh, don't tell me you think _that_ song is about rape, too—!"

"Well, good morning to everyone, as well," Ronald interrupted with a sardonic smirk, tipping his pinstriped fedora towards his baffled host. Sebastian scoffed at the histrionics, leaving to rinse out his dirty dish; the death god snagged the opportunity (as well as the demon's chair) to offer his coworkers similarly cheerful greetings, nodding to each in turn. "Happy to see we haven't forgotten our manners in the wake of all of this excitement."

"If you had manners, you'd have already answered my question," Sebastian decreed from his vantage point at the sink, cleaning a few brown stains from the bottom of his mug. He then slipped the cup into the dishwasher, spun around, and lounged against the countertop, hip jutted out and chin angled down. Fingers drumming briskly against his forearm, he regarded the strange luggage that the cat had dragged in. Rather, the strange luggage that the cat was attempting to attack.

"Geez, so impatient. Like a kid waiting for his birthday presents. Which is actually appropriate in this case…" Ronald snickered and gingerly pealed Georgina from the sides of the sack, oblivious to the holes that her claws had ripped into the cloth. It might have ruined his big reveal, but as luck would have it, he was already in the middle of throwing back the excess flaps of fabric. The gap at the top of the bag was larger than the ones Georgina had made; everyone's eyes were drawn to that, rather than the work she'd done. (Stupid two-legged creatures, unappreciative and blind~ With a haughty _meow_, she stalked off.)

Grelle, of course, was the first to recognize the contents of the satchel for what they were. "Wedding gifts!" she squealed, catapulting from her seat and flying towards the presents like a rock from a slingshot. With another metallic rattle and clang, she latched herself to the bag with just as much enthusiasm as Georgina. And even though the reaper's "claws" were short and manicured, the men knew without trying that it would be far more difficult to detach her. "Where did you find these, Ronnie?"

"They were all waiting outside 'Bastian's door," Ronald responded with a shrug, turning 'round in his chair and resting his head atop its back. Arms pillowed beneath his chin, he shot the demon in question a wolfish grin. "Almost thought you'd forgotten to take yesterday's trash down to the dumpsters—that maybe this was all… you know, romantic memorabilia. But seeing as you're not an emotional wreck on the floor, I'm guessing you and Ciel made up and out… Probably got a trash bag about this size full of condom wrappers now, huh?" He congratulated Sebastian's (presumed) debauchery with a licentious wink; Sebastian considered explaining to the others that he and Ciel did, on occasion, do more than just have sex, but in the end decided not to bother. They were barely managing to maintain their official monthly quota of Bad Deeds; letting others believe that they were indulging in gratuitous amounts of Sin might not be as bad as actually doing it, but it was still a tally, when all was said and done.

"Ooo, would you look at this?" Grelle was still rummaging through Sebastian and Ciel's hoard of gifts, drooling over every-other new treasure she discovered. "Baalberith sent you a new set of silver knives. And here's a _heavenly_ crock pot from Uriel!" The reaper (giggling at her own pun) lifted the pot from the bag, admiring the ornately designed box and its thousand year warrantee. She hummed in envious approval—they made the _best _kitchenware Above— and hugged the endowment to her endowments, turning expectantly towards her friend. "Oh, Sebastian-darling, you simply _must _let me try making my Longing for DEATH chili in this beauty~!"

"Whatever you wish," the devil responded in a distracted murmur, only half-paying attention to Grelle's fangirl ravings. Instead, he was checking his wristwatch; just-past-seven, now. He had to get going. "But don't set anything on fire, this time."

"Certainly, certainly~ Ooo, these towels from Leviathan would be enough to make anyone green with envy!"

Ronald grunted, watching Grelle scavenge with half-hooded eyes. "That _is_ his job."

"And Raphael sent you a very generous gift card for Best Buy! Looks like he heard about your little obsession with Geor— hey, where are you off to?" With a visible start, Grelle's girlish glee morphed into legitimate mystification upon noticing that Sebastian was no longer behind her, meandering about the kitchen, but instead over by the coat closet. The demon had already worked one arm through the sleeve of his pull-over and was part-way through the other when the reaper saw what he was doing; in her surprise, she even unintentionally loosened her possessive hold on the crock pot. If only a little.

Sebastian offered an unfathomable smile. "Out," was his simple answer, barely audible over the tinny jangle of keys being shoved into the depths of his pants' pocket. "I'll be back later."

"But _where_ are you going?" the death god pressed with a scowl, spinning around on her bum to fully regard her friend. The pot remained in her lap; Sebastian had a sneaking suspicion that, once he left the house, he'd never see it again. "You don't have work, do you? I thought you'd requested off today."

"I did. But tomorrow is Sunday, and thou shalt keep the Sabbath holy, and all of that," Sebastian reminded with a leer, as if tickled by the irony. "I have someone important to meet and some chores to run. The three of you can housesit for a while, can't you? Since you practically live here, anyway." The last bit was added under his breath, the accusation mitigated by a toothy grin. The devil then sashayed out the door before anyone had a chance to respond or object, though he rather doubted that they'd have done either of those things—their attention had likely already been recaptured by the presents.

Well, if nothing else, their new possessions would inspire greed and jealousy. Two tick marks closer to this month's quota.

Excellent.

**8:49 AM**

When Ciel awoke that morning—warm, content, and still able to feel Sebastian's arms wrapped around his body—the little demon's heart was all aflutter, basking in the joy and happiness of past and future ecstasies. As if to hide his sleepy smile, he burrowed his face into his pillow (it still smelled like his fiancé), nestled deep into the softness of his quilt and mattress (also scented, at this point), and allowed the feeling of sweet anticipation to well within himself. For the first time since Sebastian had proposed, he felt _excited _about getting married again—like it was meant to be. Like it was _right_. And now he was a kid who'd woken too early on Christmas morning: antsy in his skin but too jubilant to care, knowing that great things would be upon him in due time. He just had to wait, and enjoy the electric sensation of expectation while it lasted.

The world was a wonderful, magical place.

…at least, it was until he left his room. Which, in retrospect, was a dumb thing to do, really.

"What in Satan's name—?"

The kitchen, it seemed, had exploded some time during the night: towels, dishes, cutlery, electronics, and packing peanuts were scattered everywhere, resting on their tops-bottoms-sides on every available (and unavailable) surface. Papers were rustling in an undetected breeze. No intelligent life was detectable (though it hardly ever was, in this apartment). And the biggest mystery of all: rather than cause obscene amounts of property damage, the detonation had apparently converted the items that had been blown every-which-way to store-quality condition. Pans were shinier, the kettle had never looked so polished… the stains in the hand rags had virtually vanished. In fact, some objects now looked so _new_ that Ciel didn't even recognize them… mainly because he was certain they'd never actually had them before. Since when had they owned a rice cooker? Or a Sham-Wow? Or… oh, well, actually, they _were_ in need of a new tea set—that porcelain one on the stove was nice, but… was that a spice rack behind it? Ever the detective, the not-child took a step from the threshold of the hall, obviously intending to further examine this strange new addition to the kitchen he knew so well… but he almost immediately tripped over a small mountain of cardboard and wrapping, which ended his adventure rather abruptly. (Georgina, in turn, darted from the pile with an angry yowl, irritated at the miniature earthquake that had agitated her crude castle. These two-legged fools had no grace!)

Upon hearing (or, perhaps, feeling) Ciel's face-first tumble, Grelle's head magically popped out from behind the island; she was almost up to her chest in bubble wrap and instruction booklets, and looked for all the world like a spoiled, smug child whose divorced parents celebrated both Christmas and Chanukah, meaning she had about fifty new gifts waiting for her in her toy box. "Oh, good morning, brat!" she sang in way of greeting, waving her hand (and a "Caution: Do Not Operate Near Small Children" pamphlet) in hello. "You're just in time! Willy and Ronnie are putting the final touches to the foosball table in Finny's bedroom."

Ciel hadn't thought he'd fallen _that _hard, but he must have—he could have sworn he just heard Grelle mention a foosball table. "…the what?" the not-child inquired, scrambling and slipping over plastic bits as he pushed himself unsteadily back to his feet. As he did so, he couldn't help but notice the discarded name tags that tried to stick to his shins— Chayot, Seraphim, Malachim, Ophanim, Mammon, Lucifer, Amon, Azazel, Belial… names that wouldn't have meant anything more to him that the individual letters that constructed them, prior to last night. But that wasn't the case now. The names came with faces. Stories. History. They only added to his confusion, trying to sort all of _that _and all of _this _out at the same time. "What are you _talking _about?"

"The foosball table," Grelle repeated merrily, also deciding to stand. Despite her strappy heels, she managed to do so with far more poise. She grinned at the demon as she dusted down the front and back of her skirt, then reached out to grab Finny's frilled pink apron. "It was a wedding gift from Michael and Gabriel. Quite the big spenders, aren't they~ Those angels are just too sweet. I really should have invited them to my wedding!" She giggled as she danced towards the stove, tying the apron's silk ribbons into a classy bow behind her back. "Anyway, you can go join the others, if you'd like. Or you can stay here and keep me company while I prepare some chili for lunch! We still need to talk flowers, you and I~" She wiggled her eyebrows as she trilled this announcement, as if discussing the intricacies of floral arrangements was the pinnacle of raw excitement— the biggest treat in the known universe.

Ciel's initial response was a deadpan stare. "…how about burdock berries?" he suggested apathetically, even as he (rather chivalrously) opened the refrigerator door for his guest. Grelle, though undeterred, nevertheless allowed her expression of overbearing bliss to melt into something more sardonic and subtle; she leveled the not-boy a wry smile as she bent over to search out ingredients, well-versed enough in the language of flowers to understand his quip.

"Cute. Do you know what buttercups symbolize?" she retorted with an ironic smirk, helping herself to some tomatoes and red peppers. "Because I'm thinking I'll be using those, if you don't buck up there, mister."

The little one sighed, releasing the handle and allowing the door to close by itself as he watched Grelle bustle about, handing her a cutting board when she began snooping around for one. "I don't know, Grelle," he said in airy exasperation, raking a hand through his sleep-tousled hair. "You're the one who cares about this stuff. What do _you_ think we should use?"

"Me?" Knife poised over veggies and fingers alike, Grelle glanced towards the ceiling with a thoughtful frown, trying very hard to mask her pleasure at being asked for her opinion. (She didn't succeed.) "Hmm… maybe petunias?" she murmured, blinking dreamily as she constructed the image in her head. The cutting knife fell; an uneven chunk of pepper flew onto the scrap-strewn floor. For all that the reaper was paying attention to reality, Ciel could have been doing an Irish jig naked atop the counter. And for all that the demon was paying attention to her, Grelle could have been doing the same. "Not for the 'anger and resentment' meaning, of course—though that would have been rather appropriate, had yesterday's events… er, ahem, anyway— but for 'your presence soothes me.' And there's a strain of black velvet petunias that would really add to the ambiance… maybe with a few springs of diamond frost or baby's breath… It would beautifully augment the macabre feel of it all!" She tittered once again, clasping the knife to her breasts and shivering in pleasure as pink tomato juices dripped down her glinting blade and woven fingers, staining her skin and clothes like diluted, oversaturated blood. But then a second idea struck her, and she began wildly waving that same knife around, using it to gesture and articulate her thoughts. Vegetable seeds soared this way and that, as if tiny shooting stars; Ciel protected himself with distance and an uplifted arm. Maybe, if he was quiet enough, he could sneak back to his room while she was still fantasizing and making decisions for him… "Perhaps forget-me-nots! Those would be lovely. Small, tasteful, appropriate. We could mix them with honeysuckle! That would— oh, but that would clash with the color scheme that I (uh, I mean, _we_) have planned. And that orange-y salmon color just isn't at _all _attractive. What we need is more _passion._ More _fire._ More _red._"

"How about spider lilies?"

The young devil had just about made it to the corridor—already half-turned in preparation to run—when the too-familiar voice caught his ear: a voice full of bubbles and rainbows and bipolar disorder. Ciel spun around in time to see the front door violently introduced to the wall as four grinning demons filed into the apartment, lead by a blonde in short-shorts and an old Sailor Moon t-shirt. He was, ironically, posing much like the buxom anime star in question, with his little brother positioned appropriately beside him and his butler acting as Tuxedo Mask in the background. (At least, Ciel assumed that was the reason behind the half-mask Claude wore. But then, you could never be too sure with the Trancys.) Hannah, rather than participate, held up a loaf of fresh, homemade pumpkin bread and smiled at Grelle. "Do you need any help in the kitchen?" she inquired politely over the sound of her boys being dweebs.

Ciel, too, said something over the sound of the Trancy males being dweebs. It was just less appropriate. Alois responded to the colorful salutation by laughing (even as he clamped his hands over Luca's little ears); Hannah and Grelle seemed unfazed by it, figuring calling attention to the once-earl's bad behavior would only encouraging him; and Claude, in order to defend his master's honor, attempted to retaliate by throwing an artificial rose, but those things weren't made to be aerodynamic. Even as the stem left his fingers, it wobbled mid-air; it then landed a mere four inches from the servant's feet, and was instantly attacked by a lurking Georgina. Who was, in turn, attacked by a squealing Luca. The blonde watched diligently as all of this played out, and then straightened as a stroke of sheer brilliance illuminated his mind like a bolt of lightning.

"Red flowers… aha! Roses are another good one!" With a gasp of breath and a rush of wind through his luxurious locks, Alois spun to face Grelle and Hannah, looking for all the world as if this insight had taken him completely by surprise. His puffed chest swelled; he grinned like he'd just proposed the most original flower idea in the history of all flower-related ideas. "Roses can be red, can't they?"

The maid beamed, her pride obvious. The reaper considered the suggestion, but then muttered something that sounded like "overrated, overpriced, and I did it first." Claude picked up his plastic rose and tucked it behind his ear, as his t-shirt was only painted to look like the front of a tuxedo, and thus offered no place to insert the flower. Alois turned his smile upon Ciel, positively oozing exhilaration as he examined Ciel's face for satisfaction or gratitude.

Instead, Ciel graced Alois with a stare so flat that those around him began to feel two-dimensional.

"…I'm going back to bed."

**10:01 AM**

Or not. Unfortunately for Ciel, the Christmas metaphor had (for the umpteenth time) become appropriate, and not in the happy, relaxing sense. No, more in the no-one-will-ever-sleep-again-and-I-hope-that-lamp-wasn't-new-or-an-heirloom sense. The peace of a holy morning had been replaced by the insanity of a late-night party, with all of the voluble chatter and deafening hullaballoo that one would expect from those who were drugged, drunk, and-or distantly related. It had been centuries since Ciel had last attended a family gathering (back before… well, everything) and he had been too young, then, to remember much about such revelry now—but the sounds and smells of Grelle and Hannah cooking ("Would you be a dear and spit out some sort of knife that I could use to chop these onions?"); of Finny, Claude, and Ronald engaging in round after round of foosball ("Finny—no, you'll break the handle again! Be caref—Claude! Using your fingers to kick the ball is cheating! And stop trying to jab us in the stomach with the poles!" "Hands into tokens, grips into weapons, balls into—" "Oh, shut up— you don't have any balls."); and of Luca playing with Georgina ("Cat! You're a kitty-cat! And you dance-dance-dance and you dance-dance-dance!") bounced and reverberated through the whole apartment, leaving the place feeling cramped and loud and… kind of homey, not that he'd admit as much.

Especially in the presence of certain company.

"Oh my… what are you up to in here?" Alois offered a devious leer as he slipped into the room through the door that Ciel had somehow forgotten to lock, adamant that they spend a bit of quality time together. After all, they were best friends… and he'd already left Ciel alone for a whole hour. Surely that had to be some sort of record. With clear blue eyes, the blonde not-child perused the mess that was the other's quarters, which was nearly as much a wreck as the kitchen, at this point. Rather than appliances and gift cards, however, Ciel's bed and carpet had been re-upholstered with clothing and hangers, boxes and bins. _1870s_, one cardboard container read—a dusty old thing with moth-eaten edges. _1880s. 1890s. 1900s. 1910s. 1920s_. And on and on and on, up 'til that very decade. Some cartons were smaller, some were larger; some were open, some were closed, and some were empty—their contents spilled like multi-colored innards over the pale expanse of the floor. As Ciel closed the door behind the blonde (and actually remembered the damn lock this time), his companion waltzed towards the ransacked closet, cooing over a pair of sequins-covered bellbottoms that had fallen from their hanger. When he picked up the pants to measure them against his own hips, he noticed a cravat thrown over the doorknob; with a happy hum, Alois wound the satin fabric around his neck, then struck a pose for his host.

Ciel managed a small, only somewhat-strained smile. He then wrenched both pieces of clothing from the younger devil's person.

"It's a project," he informed curtly, neatly folding his reacquired attire before tossing them haphazardly atop the bed. They landed in a crumpled heap next to some lederhosen and a kilt that he'd bought as a souvenir. "And it's none of your business."

Things had changed outside his room. Either they'd gotten bored with foosball or had broken the table; whatever the case, Finny, Ronald, and Claude had moved on to other activities. Finny, it sounded like, was assisting with food, whipping up a batch of his special violet pudding; Luca was rather flippantly telling Ronald about the time he'd burned the people of his village to death; and Grelle was celebrating finally having found someone who agreed with her about the appropriateness of _Every Breath You Take. _The reaper's delight (and ardent speech about their kindred spirits) was short lived, however, as Claude soon informed her that he liked the idea of the song so much _because_ the stalker aspect reminded him of his brother. Hannah, in response, muttered something about not calling the kettle black, only to be cheerfully corrected by Finny, who kindly pointed out that their kettle was made of stainless steel. Ciel was quick to tune them out again; Alois didn't seem to hear them at all. He was too busy regarding his companion, squinting at Ciel as if trying to read a book that lay a few inches out of his visual range.

But eventually, whatever stray words he managed to pick out on Ciel's face became full-fledged sentences, and the gaps in grammar filled in by the garments strewn around them on the ground. "You're trying to put together the perfect wedding outfit, aren't you…!" he guessed, and Ciel had to admit, that detective work was a smidgen more impressive than the thing with the roses. He fancied he even looked a touch surprised—a fact that made the grin on Alois' face widen. "You _are_! Oh, let me help you! C'mon, that's what best friends are for, right?"

Ciel blew out his cheeks (because Grelle would get angry if he tried to do anything more satisfying, such as strangle his guest) and wearily shook his head. "Alois, you are _not _my best f—"

"My wish was for you, too, you know."

He fell still. The pronouncement was calm, somber. Untouched by the usual maniacal undercurrent of frenzied fervor that lurked in so much of what Alois said. But that sobriety wasn't what gave Ciel pause—no. What truly caught the little devil's attention was the glance that his companion leveled him: a steady stare of bottomless cerulean, ancient and erudite and honest. Despite the booty shorts and anime top, in that moment, the creature before him looked wise and learned beyond his years—older even than Ciel, and thus commanding of his respect.

It rather caught Ciel off-guard. He heard himself swallow before he realized he'd done it; felt himself take a step backwards without noticing he'd moved.

Alois smiled. "It was," he murmured emphatically, almost desperately, as he tilted his pretty head. Before Ciel had a chance to fully comprehend his intentions, the blonde reached out and took his hands, clasping them to his chest as if saying some sort of prayer. Ciel's hair stood on end; _blasphemous_. And yet… "I wanted everyone to find happiness. That includes you. And yes, it took you a while, and yes, sometimes that joy came disguised… but you're staring paradise straight in the face, and I want to make sure you don't trip over the finish line, now that you're here. I'm sorry it looks like I'm trying to steal your happiness away again by showing up, but I _promise_ you that wasn't—isn't— my goal. What I want is to be friends. What I want is for your happiness to be the happiest happiness possible! And right now, the key to that happiness seems to be this 'project' of yours… am I right?" With a giggle, Alois swung their clasped fists once, twice, three times, then let go with a twirl, pirouetting right back to his position before the closet.

Ciel, faintly startled, allowed Alois do as he pleased. Maybe… maybe, for as insane as the blonde was, he wasn't… Well. If nothing else, Alois had always been charismatic and convincing. That was a fact that hadn't changed.

"So!" Clapping his hands, the younger demon (but older soul) began scrutinizing all of the outfits he could lay his eyes on: from bitches to trousers, button-downs to pullovers. Satin, cotton, silk, corduroy, velvet, polyester, wool; jades, cobalts, maroons, creams, grays, blacks. "What's that old saying? That adage for a happy wedding and marriage…? Something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue, right?"

Still a trifle thunderstruck, Ciel charily lowered himself onto an empty corner of his mattress and nodded. Though really, he had to admit that he'd never given the superstition much thought. "I suppose."

"Well, that's a good place to start, then, in'nit?" Alois chirped, lifting a suede jacket from a pile and holding it out in front of him, closing one eye as he simultaneously regarded Ciel. After a moment, he seemed to come to an executive decision and tossed the coat away. It landed atop a stray oxford heel and knocked over a pair of leather cowboy boots. The spurs jangled in protest. "Something blue is easy enough—you always wear those earrings of yours, don't you? Or there's that old ring. I don't see it on you now, but you know the one I'm talking about, right? That diamond one that looks like a sapphi—"

"I know the one," Ciel cut off, brusque but calm. As if in testament to the proverb that old habits die hard, his fingers fell upon his thumb, then jerked away like they'd been burned. The movement did not register on Ciel's face; it was as if his appendages had acted on their own. "I think I'll stick with the earrings."

For once, Alois had the decency (or the foreknowledge) not to ask why. "Well then, that's one down!" he cheered, swiping at the air as if marking a tally. "Equally easy is something borrowed. I can totally lend you a sexy 'lil garter—one from that beaded set I was wearing at Victoria's Secret! When the security guards came running, I pulled up my pants and ran, like everyone else… As a result, I accidentally shoplifted a wicked new outfit. Score~" He chuckled again, obviously pleased with himself and his unintentional act of evil, and seemingly untroubled by details such as whether or not Ciel even _wanted_ to use a garter as his borrowed item. Ciel half-considered protesting, but in the end didn't bother; in light of everything that had happened recently, he was getting used to this sort of treatment. Truth be told, in a strange, masochistic kind of way, it was sort of nice to get it from someone besides Grelle… Kept things fresh, as it were. "Well then, the last things we need to are 'something old' and 'something new.' And surely there's something old worth using here!" Alois gesticulated towards the collection of dated packages, each one more cobweb-covered than the next. Theoretically, the only difficult thing about the obligatory "old" item should have been making a selection from so many choices… but the frown on Ciel's face seemed to suggest otherwise.

Alois arched a slender eyebrow, not fully understanding his friend's visible uncertainty. "Ciel? What's the matter?" he tenderly inquired, stepping over a ring of slacks and into a seeming bush of bustles. A ribbed vest (or was that a corset?) caught on the tip of his sock and came along for the ride. "Are you having trouble finding something you like? Or…" He backtracked, considered. Started again. "Or is it that you don't know what _Sebastian_ would like?"

Maybe it was because Alois was so close to the truth already. Maybe it was because Ciel was too tired and frustrated to be snippy, anymore. Or maybe it was that the little demon had finally hit that point in a battle where he was willing to tolerate any backup he was bequeathed, even if it meant choking down some pride. The latter would make sense; perhaps _that _was the sour taste in the back of Ciel's throat when he finally sighed, swallowed, and spoke.

"…this wedding isn't really mine anymore, Alois. It hasn't been for a long time," the hoary-locked devil groused, collapsing back against his pillows with a mushy _fwump_ of downy feathers. Alois looked ready to argue this, but Ciel waved him silent, vaguely bored. "For the most part, I don't care about that. All that really matters to me is marrying Sebastian. And all that really matters to him—or so he's said—is marrying me. The real me. And since the only task Grelle is letting me complete on my own is choosing my clothing, I want what I wear to be representative of my true self. Of who he's actually marrying. But…" With a lazy flop, the not-boy's arm fell across his head, draping over his eyes and nose. He looked the very picture of a cliché movie heroine, sprawled across the bed in such a fashion; Alois had the good sense not to mention that, though. "But the problem is, there have been so many different 'me's throughout the years, I don't even know where to start…"

For a tense minute, Alois didn't seem to truly follow Ciel's train of thought. He looked from the first era to the last, one fashion to the next, and seemed on the verge of arguing that—at the end of the day—they were all just bolts of fabric and spools of thread. But then he reconsidered, remembering the whole idea of clothes making the man… A somewhat amusing axiom, taking into account the volume and variety of costumes scattered about. With a thoughtful hum, the blonde lifted a widely brimmed pink hat, bedecked in faux-peonies and thick bands of ribbon. Alois turned the bonnet between two fingers, just as he turned Ciel's predicament around in his mind.

"Well," he finally said, sounding annoyingly _certain_ despite his inability to wholly appreciate the problem, "I dunno if this advice will really help, or if it even applies here, but Hannah always says that if you don't know where to start, the beginning is always a good place to try."

The blonde shrugged blithely, humbly, perhaps presuming he'd been of some assistance. It was an incorrect assumption, to phrase it mildly. For all of the maturity and astuteness he'd arguably gained, he was still something of a novice when it came to detecting social cues; apparently, he'd interpreted Ciel's cynical stare as some sort of wordless show of gratitude. As the disbelieving hush grew heavier and heavier, Alois looked more and more pleased with himself, and Ciel more and more agitated. When their feelings at last became so disproportionate that the older demon's seething had all but inspired the younger to strut in pompous circles, patting himself on the back for being the most brilliant advice-giver ever to have walked God's green earth, Ciel opened his mouth to knock the other down a peg—

But was distracted upon noticing a wrinkled garment by Alois' feet: coal-gray ruffles blanketed by a turtleneck that had been tossed to the side. A peep of an ebony sleeve, embellished with silvery buttons. A tail of lace.

_The beginning…? _

All at once, a light bulb flicked on in the space above Ciel's head. Not just because Alois had at that moment decided to entertain himself with the overhead switch, but because the inspiration the tiny devil had been waiting and longing for had finally hit him upside the noggin with all the blunt force of a frying pan. Without sparing his guest a second glance, Ciel bolted from his bed as if that disembodied frying pan was still chasing him, egging him down the hall and into the overcrowded kitchen. He hardly needed to announce his presence: socks, speed, and linoleum had never been a particularly safe combination, but at least it was an attention-grabber. The not-child only just-managed to keep from flying head-first into Ronald, who was (as always) sitting atop the counter; at the last moment, he successfully redirected his flailing, stumbling, and skidding towards Grelle, who intercepted the excited devil with a breathless _oomph_ and rainstorm of raw carrots and celery sticks. (Apparently, she'd been in the middle of setting out a snack platter.)

"Little brat? What on earth are you—?"

"_Grelle_," Ciel interrupted, just as winded and wild-eyed as the reaper—a fact that swiftly shut the death god up, despite the fact that her hair was now full of vegetables. Flabbergasted by Ciel's uncharacteristic behavior, the redhead watched as the once-earl pawed at her apron, using the leverage to both steady himself and to keep her attention. But he hardly needed to go _that _far in order to maintain Grelle's interest; honestly, in the wake of his subsequent proclamation, such tactics seemed a bit superfluous.

"Grelle," the little demon repeated, thin lips twisting into a smile as adrenaline became intention. "I've decided that you're right. Every wedding outfit needs red."

**XXX**


	4. Something Blue

**Disclaimer: **There's a lot I wish I owned. Maybe if I found the right star…

**Author's Note: **Thank you to everyone who reviewed last chapter! Every bit of feedback I get means so much to me.

In other news, I'm sorry for the wait between this chapter and the previous one. I'm afraid real life has been rather hectic, and not very much fun. XD; I do hope this was an update worth waiting for… at least in terms of content, if not also length. ;3

**Warnings: **SebaCiel. Part of the "Bicentennial" series ("Bicentennial," "Inevitable," "Five Thousand," "Timetable," "Coffee Break," "Cats and Dogs," "Surely Someday," "Turn," "Bouquet," and "Moral"); also makes reference to my fanfic, "Diligo" (no, seriously). OCs. An obscene number of tasteless puns based on George Clooney movie titles. Takes place immediately after "Five Thousand." Inspirational thanks extended to TheLadyBluebird, Neneko, Neocloud9, and Madeleine-Elizabeth. Thank you, everyone, for your help and support!

**Dedication: **For all of my lovely Bicentennial Boys and Babes. Here's to keeping the future love alive! And, of course, happy holidays. :D

**XXX**

**Hitches and Knots**

**X**

_Something Blue_

**XXX**

**11:28 PM **

Claude's plastic rose aside, a number of aerodynamically-challenged items went flying about the apartment that night. Concepts like time, all manner of limb, yards and yards of colorful textiles… Some didn't soar for long, admittedly, but they were undeniably airborne for at least a few seconds. It all made for quite the show. And even after so many centuries of supernatural existence (highlighted by witnessed miracles and horrors the likes of which mere mortals could never truly understand), Ciel found he couldn't repress the feelings of awe and wonderment that welled within as he watched Grelle's fingers dart and zip and sew, faster than any machine he'd ever seen in action. Hannah provided some assistance, as well, once the pandemonium brought about by Ciel's exuberant entrance had died down: she politely coughed up a spare needle or three, made a covert run to JoAnne's Fabrics (though borrowing Sebastian's shades and black trench coat was likely unnecessary), and found old re-runs of SpongeBob Squarepants on the television, which did wonders when it came to shutting up… well, all of those in the vicinity with the mental capacity of a five year old.

In short, pretty much everyone.

Though it took an hour or two for the brain-dulling magic of the series to fully take hold, both Trancy boys were ultimately lulled from their perpetual sugarless sugar-high by the sounds of inanity and poorly executed puns that seeped from the speakers. From there, it was a short leap from calmed to comatose: half an hour later, Claude and Will found their laps occupied by sleeping demons. Or _would_ have found them occupied, anyway, had they been paying the slightest bit of attention; instead, said reaper and devil remained transfixed with the program for a notable while longer, unaware that their sponge-loving cover had been blown the same moment Luka started snoring. Ronald mumbled something uncomplimentary about getting better picture reception by watching the program off the whites of their vegetative eyes or the sheen of their glasses, but Ciel was fairly certain he was just miffed that he'd missed his daily dose of My Little Pony, seeing as the others had refused to relinquish the remote control. Finny, forever confused by the concept of animated television in general (it was physically impossible to live in a pineapple under the sea, wasn't it? And why would a horse wear a corset?), nevertheless managed to cheer his friend up by taking out the plastic tub of pony figurines that Sebastian had thought he'd hidden better. The two then amused themselves at the gift-strewn kitchen table in a manner that would have made bronies (and eight year old girls) everywhere quite proud. After a few morally-questionable, self-narrated episodes of imaginative quests and lesbian undertones, the microwave clock struck nine; in a disturbingly appropriate, kindergarten-esque fashion, the death god and gardener tuckered out, threw away their empty juice boxes and cookie crumbs, and retired to Finny's bedroom.

Two down. Carefully buffing a line of silvery buttons, only half-paying attention to Hannah and Grelle as they blathered on and on about the idiocies and idiosyncrasies of past clientele (Joan of Arc, Marie Curie, Bloody Mary, blah blah blah, women and their gossip), Ciel wondered just how long it would take for the rest of the room to call it a night. He got his answer a few commercial breaks later, when Claude suddenly remembered how to blink. In doing so, he realized that his charges had long since been knocked out by visions of boxer-bedecked starfish, were drooling all over their slacks, and hey, what happened to the sun? With the help of Hannah, he gathered up the brothers, nodded a courteous so-long to his new, bespectacled comrade, and quietly left with his family for the Undertaker's abode and the beds that awaited them there.

But speaking of abodes, those left remaining (and conscious) in the apartment couldn't help but notice that Sebastian had yet to return to his. Which wasn't altogether a bad thing, really, as Ciel and Grelle were still furiously working on wedding attire, and the last thing they needed was Sebastian to catch sight of the surprise before it was time. ("Bad luck, you know~" "Says the woman who crossed paths with a black cat while running with scissors." "I'll let you know that I have _extensive_ scissor training.") Still, the little devil was grateful when his text-tone sang at 10:14, and he received an apologetic note informing him that his fiancé was being kept at bay by last-minute, nuptial-related details. Grelle got a message a moment later asking if she could stay the night and babysit; as if she'd really been planning on leaving, anyway. No, no, there was too much to do: she sent Will on a few flower-errands ("Quit complaining—your hay fever isn't even _that_ bad!"), double-checked all twenty five of her random lists ("Woah, wait, Grelle—_who _did you say RSVPed?"), and tinkered on Ronald's laptop for some reason she refused to expound upon ("_Tch_. With a password clue as simple as 'Celestia's favorite time of night,' he may as well just leave his computer unlocked").

And once all of that had been taken care of, they did each other's nails.

Ciel felt no shame in admitting that he enjoyed a good manicure, despite the difficulties that having naturally black nails presented. He had, after all, been raised on such pampering; he'd never found it particularly girly or emasculating. Even if he once had, he was a demon now, and demons knew little of humiliation. In fact, there was only one bitty issue that niggled at him whenever he indulged, and that was _who_ he tended to engage in the practice with—painting the fingers and toes of the woman who'd first killed his foster mother, then somehow wound up replacing her. But if you found yourself thinking too hard during a manicure, then you were doing _something_ wrong; Ciel used all of his not-inconsiderable mental faculties to keep from mulling over Madam Red, or his true mum, or the past in general. Or the future. Or anything really, other than how nice it was to finally relax, submerged in silence (sans the occasional grunt or sneeze from Will, who had been tasked to lug a good fifty large pots of intricately arranged floral decorations from the basement to the loft. And of course, it went without saying that the elevator was broken). Usually, when the unusual pair spoiled themselves with this sort of lavishness, it was at Grelle's house: they'd pop in a few episodes of the reaper's favorite soap opera, _Morangos com Açúcar_, and—for lack of a more masculine way to phrase their habits—gossip about boys and shopping until Will demanded that they shut up and sleep, because some of them needed it.

Today's pseudo-spa session was more out of necessity than extravagance, and they were both more harried and stressed than was the norm, but that just meant that they needed this more than usual. Again, if you're thinking too much, 'you're doing it wrong;' there was no reason why they might not still enjoy themselves while coating their extremities in enamel. Since the reaper had left her opera at home, Ciel instead proposed that they unwind to the dulcet tones of a book on CD that he'd been meaning to finish. Placing the last disk in the appropriate tray, he then watched Grelle mix a plethora of yellows, reds, and whites together atop a margarine lid, much as he had earlier studied her stitching. It was a rather hypnotizing sight; soon he'd coiled his arms around his legs and rested his chin atop his knees so as to ogle more comfortably.

"So… what is this that we're listening to, hm? What's going on?" the death god(ess) inquired as she stirred her liquid concoction, scrutinizing the resultant shade on the tip of her brush. It seemed she'd added a touch too much red to this first batch; against the pallor of the demon's skin, it glowed a faint orange. She tried again as Ciel grunted.

"You never bother telling me what's happened previously in _your_ show," he wryly retorted, as if in stubborn rebellion. Still, his squirming half-smirk was enough to prove that he was merely teasing; he glanced up in time to catch his companion's chin jerk as a dry snort wedged itself in the back of her throat.

"Well, that's because I hardly know myself, do I? It's more imaginative that way, don't you think? Wondering what each person's story is… wondering how they all relate… wondering what the title even _means_…" As she mulled and murmured over these great mysteries, Grelle's smile became a contemplative frown. For the first time in a long while, she allowed herself to be distracted from the task at hand, instead turning towards her young friend and gasping in wide-eyed realization. "…Do you think Claude might be able to tell me?"

Ciel shot her a sardonic smirk in reply. _Google _would've been able to tell her that… "Perhaps it'd all make more sense if you actually bothered to turn on the subtitles."

"Oh, pish. Where's the fun in that?" The reaper waved her companion's suggestion away as if it were a bothersome odor or an overly-friendly fly. This time, the self-made polish had taken on a buttery sheen, and the tiny demon had a strange feeling that he'd look rather jaundiced if he allowed Grelle to apply it. Thankfully, she didn't bother asking—just attempted a third hue. As she mixed her grown-up finger paints, they listened to the book's smooth-voiced narrator wax on in poetic detail about a church and an appointed rendezvous, just as secret as the tryst between the two main characters. There was something oddly familiar about the plotline, if she momentarily ignored the implications of heavy artillery and gunfire. As the shinigami put two and two together, she arched an amused eyebrow.

"…I thought Romeo and Juliet were just over-excitable, lust-riddled idiots with a death-wish," Grelle commented lightly, smirking at the obstinate not-child curled up on the couch beside her. Ciel flushed a bit in response, his supernatural orientation rendering him incapable of lying or denying previous declarations… not that he had any reason or desire to. Even still, he allowed himself to briefly succumb to the juvenile distraction of wriggling his feet atop the suede couch cushions, then of tugging on the velveteen folds that he managed to catch between his curled toes.

"They are," he mumbled emphatically behind folded arms, clearing his throat in an attempt to sound haughtier. Or, at least, not quite as flustered at being called out. "But I'm allowed to be sappy and romantic the night before my wedding."

Grelle's response was a playful scoff, light and airy. It fooled absolutely no one— despite the attempted disguise, it was really just a wordless rebuke. But as chidings went, it wasn't so bad; the burbled sound was full of palpable pleasure, and her rejoinder was as gentle and affectionate as the touch of the hand that reached out for his. After giving her newest concoction of color an approving once over, Ciel placed his palm atop her own with all of the grace and elegance of the aristocrats he'd be raised to emulate. "Brat, if you wanted something sweet and romantic, I'd have brought over a movie with a happier ending. Like _Chocolat. _Or _Princess Bride_. Or heck, _Iron Man._ I mean, as I recall, the whole marriage-thing didn't work out so well for ol' Romey and Jules."

Despite himself, the tiny demon chuckled at that: a twitching smile tugging on the elastic corners of his lips. Not that Grelle could see his mouth, hidden as it was behind his crooked knees… But she _could_ see the glitter of humor in the once-child's mismatched eyes: reflecting her bemused features and his distant memories in equal measure. "…but it _is_ a happy story," he eventually corrected, the muffled words touched by the faintest hint of sarcasm—just enough to let Grelle know that he was embarrassed. That he was revealing something deep and personal and dangerously true. "It's a happy story… because it didn't happen to Sebastian and me." Ciel's winding grin gained teeth; his cheeks, color. His nails did, as well—a first coating of pale peach over onyx gloss and rot. He contemplated the change with an idle tilt of his head, his lilted voice lazy as his thoughts tumbled along… "Maybe that's why I hate the story so much… because it so easily could have been my own. At the Aurora… or times when I was Contracted. There were so many moments when I thought…"

The not-boy trailed off, the fade to silence as abrupt as the sudden cracking of his voice. He coughed once, grunting something half-hearted about a tickle in his throat; Grelle kept her gaze downcast, focusing (or, at least, pretending to focus) on the slender fingers in her grasp, and the makeup she was applying to them.

"…he would have followed you, you know."

The palm placed so gingerly within the cradle of her own tensed the slightest fraction at the unexpected confession; the reaper's whispered assertion brushed against his pinking ears as softly as the bristles of her brush did his nails. Still, his reaction was not born of surprise… She didn't need to look up to know that this announcement was in no way _news_ to her companion. The only thing that shocked him was her willingness to admit to the truth that they'd both so diligently tried to ignore. Still, though they'd never previously spoken of it, he knew. He'd always known. After all, he hadn't always been as unconscious as he'd seemed.

(_"Just_ _please, let him go, please, no more, please, me instead, please please please—"_)

"…like I said," Ciel droned, the tripping words heavy: overly saturated with recollections of recurring nightmares and sepia visions of a not-so-ancient history. He readjusted his pinkie with an arrogant sniff, all for the convenience of Grelle's paint-tipped polisher. "Lust-riddled idiot with a death wish."

The reaper looked about as convinced by this statement as she would have if he'd announced that Scotland Yard had finally found the evidence to convict her as Jack the Ripper. "And if you'd woken up to find his unmoving body sprawled across your own?" she pressed flatly, pausing transitorily to blow warm air over drying coats of enamel. "You wouldn't have done the same?"

(_He was his only reason to exist, the only thing that kept his heart beating. He would not let go, no, "no, no, you can't die—you can't! I won't let you!"_)

"No."

Grelle chuckled again, low and unimpressed. "So heartless," she blithely admonished, glancing up at the impassive not-child through the hooded fringe of her long lashes. "And really, it's not the Italian kiddies' fault that they're not as lucky as you, brat."

One hand was switched for another; one half-lidded glance exchanged for a first. "Lady Luck had nothing to do with it," Ciel corrected, the gravity of his tone deliberately contrasting the lightheartedness of his companion's. At the sound of such unforeseen somberness, Grelle allowed herself a moment's hesitation… She then faltered, visibly taken aback, upon tilting her head and noticing the _knowledge _lurking in the oceanic depths of Ciel's deep blue irises. He, in turn, offered his friend a wavering grin, as if to confirm her suspicions… before swallowing thickly, trying in vain to suppress the electric tremble that shot from the tip to the base of his spine. "I owe a certain lady my thanks," the once-earl told his dear friend in a rasp, refusing to acknowledge the foreign lump in his throat, "but her name isn't Luck."

Grelle blinked once. Opened her mouth. Closed it again. Hunted desperately for a proper reply, but came up empty handed; she'd never expected recognition or appreciation, and wasn't quite sure how to deal with it now that it'd been presented to her. Flushing a rather vibrant shade of magenta, the death god shifted once atop the couch—readjusted her skirt and fiddled with her hair— and then beamed again, demure in her delight. "…are you tearing up, brat?" she gently teased, two fingers pinching the plump of his palm in a loving sort of squeeze. Doing anything more ran the risk of smearing and smudging his polish; heaven forbid such a tragedy occur on her watch. "What a baby you are, crying the night before your wedding…"

Glowering wetly, Ciel coughed out a gruff snuffle of negation— batting lustrous lashes rapidly before rolling glossy eyes. "Don't be absurd. I'm not _crying_," he snapped, contorting his features into an affronted sneer before giving his damp fingertips an admonishing flutter. As the book's narrator heaped lavish praise upon pseudo-Romeo and revamped-Juliet's dramatic and somewhat predictable end, the young demon stretched his jaw 'til it cracked and gestured vaguely at his navy irises. "It's moisture from yawning. It's late. I'm tired."

Such a child.

"Well, we seem to be done here," Grelle informed with a grin, placing the plastic lid atop the coffee table and working out the kinks in her own neck. It had been a long day, but from a mound of silks, polish, and hard work had come bountiful rewards. Beside her, folded neatly atop a chair, was Ciel's completed outfit, looking just as he'd envisioned; before her, a prepped Ciel was examining his nails—dull and flesh-toned for the first time in decades. From the sound of creaking joints and muted, sneeze-riddled cursing, Will was in the middle of lugging the last of the morning's decorations up the final flight of stairs… there was nothing more to be done besides making certain that everyone got a proper night's rest. Tomorrow would start bright and early… "You can go to bed, if you're so sleepy."

"Right then." Standing with a lethargic stretch, Ciel gathered up his personalized apparel as the audio book's narration faded to a histrionic musical number, signaling the end of the story. As the honeyed tones of the orchestra swelled, the young demon readjusted his hold on rustling gossamer and crunching velvet and hesitated, regarding the redhead who sat before him. Grelle cocked an eyebrow in silent protest to such scrutiny, but rather than rise to unspoken bait, the not-boy simply offered another smile.

"Thank you, Grelle," he said graciously, swooping down to plant a chaste kiss upon her rouged cheek. His lashes and locks tickled and fluttered like butterfly legs; his lips barely lingered there for more than a moment. Then he pulled away with devious little grin, as if nothing had changed. And nothing _had_ changed, really. Some things would never change.

Grelle didn't realize her fingers had leapt to touch her face until they'd already fallen back into her lap. Her hand, like her features, felt unusually warm; whether the sensation had been birthed by the brief embrace or her own cherry blush, she wasn't really sure. She didn't really care. Either way, her devious smirk stretched—emerald eyes dancing with mirth and merriment as she swatted impishly at Ciel's retreating tush, blowing a returning raspberry when appropriate.

When he disappeared into the hall, she fell back into the comforting embrace of the sofa with a sigh. Folding her hands atop her stomach, the reaper then allowed herself the pleasure of a gentler blush, grinning with all the incomparable fondness of a mother as she breathed, "…you're welcome, brat."

**9:25 AM**

Over the course of the next ten hours, Ciel made very good friends with his ceiling. And his armchair. And even Georgina, to some extent, though she had only deigned him worthy company because Sebastian never came home that evening, and _someone_ needed to refill her water dish at 2 AM. Still, in the end, the young demon felt closer to said ceiling than he did the cat, whose mood was less likely to turn on a dime and result in red welts and long scratches. (Well, Ciel supposed he deserved _some_ of the blame for his temporary injuries; Sebastian had made a point of warning him that Georgina did not appreciate being dragged across the room by her tail, whatever the circumstance.)

Though it hardly mattered. By 3, his abrasions had healed, and his skin was as unblemished as a supermodel's in a photoshopped portrait. To celebrate, he had returned to staring at the ceiling, and his armchair, and his mirror, and his closet, and whatever other piece of furniture happened to catch his eye. He wasn't bored, per se, or even lost in thought… He just didn't need or want to sleep, right then. He'd rather curl atop his quilt and breathe in the lingering scents—toy with the yarn work and absently smile to himself. In this way, 3 became 4 and 4 became 5. When 5 became 6, he heard the first stirrings of life beyond his doorway; Grelle was always awake when the dawning sky turned scarlet, whether she needed to be or not. Today, at least, she needed to be… he listened lazily as the redheaded reaper rousted her snoring husband, singing cheerfully about how they were going to move even _more _flowers today, wouldn't that be wonderfully fun? (Will responded with a choice collection of four-letter words so scathingly curt that they even gave Ciel pause. He wondered blandly if he and Sebastian would gain a tally for such a blasphemous string of swears, seeing as it'd been spewed in their home. That'd be convenient…)

The steady ticking of the spaceship clock hanging on the far wall in the devil's bedroom was soon drowned out by the scrape and groan of repositioned furnishings, flower pots, and William's mounting, snotty-nosed agony between the hours of 6 and 8; by 8:30, Ronald's moans for mercy had joined his boss's. Finny and Grelle, it sounded, were enjoying a light breakfast before submitting themselves to the grueling task of taking catered antipastos out of the fridge and removing the saran wrap. Finny added that he might even set the plates and wine glasses out, too, if he was feeling particularly daring. And oh, was that the doorbell? Such strenuous tasks they submitted themselves to.

Ciel's mattress squeaked as he flopped over, drowning out the dialogue of Ronald's retorting grumble, but the general sentiment was made clear by his tone. As the decorative rockets attached to his clocks' hands commemorated the tolling of 9 by orbiting around the painted moon in the center of its face, the hoary-haired devil started giving his first thoughts to rolling out of bed and facing the day.

But for some strange reason, he found that simple task oddly difficult to accomplish.

It was just like sleep. It wasn't that he was nervous, or anything… he wasn't. He wasn't scared. Not about marrying Sebastian— not about pledging himself to his former servant in a room full of virtual strangers… demons and reapers and angels who he only knew from stories. It wasn't like he was uncomfortable being openly affectionate, or anything. No. There was really no reason for him to feel anything other than calm and collected. He hadn't yet left the safety—um, warmth— of his bed because he didn't want to, that was all. He was comfortable here, and it wasn't like he was in a rush. The ceremony wasn't until late afternoon, and it was bad luck to see the bride early, wasn't it? That sort of superstitious stuff meant a lot to Grelle… For her sake, he should probably stay here. Out of the way. Not being nervous or scared or tired or full of stage fright or anything like—

_Sha-la-la-la-la-la, music play! Do what the music say! You wanna kiss the gi—_

With a flail of his right arm, Ciel successfully swept his cell phone from the bed stand; by some miracle, it landed softly beside him on the mattress, rather than become a dented mess of plastic on the carpeted floor. By way of the song (and its famous Disney singer) the once-earl was already fully aware of who was texting him; with a sudden eagerness, he readjusted himself atop the bed and made a grab for his bouncing phone, which was busily attempting to slither closer, lured by the shallow crevasse created by his coiled body. The device was soon safely clasped in his hands; Ciel wasted no time in sliding up the screen to access his recently-acquired message.

_Good morning, baby bird, _the new text read, and despite its lack of cheerful emoticons, Ciel could still feel tenderness and love radiating from the words. It made him smile, even before he was aware that he was doing so. _And I truly hope it is a good one. _

"It would be better with you here," Ciel couldn't help but grouse, pushing a stray strand of his unruly bangs behind his ear. Seriously, where _was _his butler? Unless he'd decided to personally verify every last-minute invitation that Grelle had forced Ronald to deliver, then there was no good reason for his continued absence around the house. Or, at least, no good reason that Ciel could think of. Not when he felt so…

_Only a few more hours 'til we're wed, my precious little one; it seems rather strange to think of, doesn't it? Though such prospects would never cause my lord anxiety, brave as he is, I admit to feeling a trifle nervous, now that the event is upon us. I am certain that being with you would help to ease that disquiet, but alas, Grelle would likely have my head on a platter if she knew that I'd so much as sent this text. _

It was a point that the not-boy was forced to concede. Maybe that was why Sebastian had been gone for so…

_Even still, I felt forced to risk our favorite reaper's fiery wrath in order to convey a fair warning. I had really rather hoped to be there when this happened, but the universe has seemed especially fond of screwing me over, recently… if you'll pardon the rather coarse phrasing. More importantly— Ciel. I have been warned by a reliable source that a certain high caliber devil will be arriving early to assist with preparations for the ceremony. Be careful. He seems harmless enough, but in truth he is quite—_

The universe, it seemed, truly _had_ developed a taste for screwing Sebastian over, for at that exact moment a number of things happened in relatively quick succession. Beginning, coincidentally, with a creature who gave even less of a crap about others' than the universe did.

"_Rr~ower_…"

It began with a cat.

A cat who loved to nestle herself in the small of Ciel's back whenever she thought him asleep. Apparently that adage about felines having a 10-minute-memory wasn't entirely without merit, Ciel thought as the dark furball leapt up upon his bed. Either that, or house cats really were nature's biggest masochists—always harassing those who least wanted their attention. Whatever the case, Georgina had apparently decided to consider their previous night of hair-pulling and teeth-bearing water under the metaphorical bridge, for no sooner had she appeared did she see fit to loll across his backside: lounging as if his spine was but the Mason-Dixon Line of her own personal island. The unexpected force of her unannounced arrival startled Ciel into dropping his cell; he was then too busy craning his neck to glare at Georgina to pick it up.

"…you know," he told the creature coldly, thin eyebrows knitting together as he regarded the contented feline. Who was, at this point, calmly cleaning herself. "It might be prudent of you to remember that, with Sebastian out, there's no one to keep me from feeding you to Cardenio."

Georgina paused with her tongue on her paw. She blinked apathetic, golden eyes at Ciel. Then she extended a regal leg and began casually licking her—

Okay, no.

"And here I thought that female dogs were the bitches of the animal kingdom," the once-child grumbled, rolling violently over to dislodge the cat from his back. Being as aerodynamically inclined as a certain, previously alluded plastic rose, a writhing Georgina flew half-way across the mattress, yowling in shock and protest for the entire two seconds of her mid-air journey. Then—much akin to their previous encounter—she was hissing, and swatting, and her back arching in annoyance, thrashing as the demon scooped her bodily into his arms and frog-marched her out of the room. "Oh, shut it," Ciel snapped as she wailed and growled, ears pressed flat against her head and spindly legs beating against his thighs. "You should be thankful that I'm not dragging you out by your tail again…"

Had she a few extra fingers (specifically one in the middle), Ciel had no doubt what Georgina's response would have been; as it was, she could only try to bite and claw at her would-be pillow, making all sorts of unhappy noises when he dropped her unceremoniously upon the not-nearly-as-comfortable tiles of the kitchen floor.

And that was when the cat passed the baton back to the universe. In regards to the whole screwing-things-up part, anyway—with an intended double entendre. For the last Ciel had been paying attention, things had sounded relatively normal outside the bowels of the house. (Well, as 'normal' as to be expected, taking the past few days into consideration.) But now, rather than obsess over the half-completed buffet or the fact that the flower pots were less "artfully arranged" and more "discarded in clumps," Grelle and Will were… uh, well, washing cucumbers together in a manner that would make that scene from "Ghost" look like Disney cartoon material. Completely absorbed in their own sexually-tinged world of phallic imagery, the giggling reapers failed to detect the disgruntled gaze of the young, pajama-clad demon. Even Georgina had other things on her mind; the moment her master's fiancé released her, an amorous Cradenio was there to provide comfort and condolence. With his body.

In retrospect, Ciel thought, this might explain why she'd tried to seek comfort with him in the first place. He almost felt bad about threatening to feed her to the dog, now that said dog was excitedly attempting to… um, eat her. In his own way.

Feeling a sudden surge of pity for the cat, the demon reached down to grab the Samoyed's crimson collar, giving Georgina ample time to run away… Which she took advantage of, of course, albeit whilst utilizing hip-movements befitting a coy minx. Ciel gawked a bit, notably baffled, as the cat flounced off towards the bedrooms—her retreat less of a bolt and more of a teasing, rump-swaying saunter. Cardenio whimpered and whined, wriggling frantically against Ciel's hold.

What the hell was going on here? The Spears were, for the most part, an affectionate duo; he knew from experience that their pet was, too. But _Georgina? _This was crossing the line…!

"O-oh! Young master, you're awake!"

At the sound of the disconcerted greeting, Ciel straightened—grip slipping, allowing a love-drunk Cardenio to scamper off to wherever his little heart desired— and twisted around, gaze searching out the speaker. Milliseconds later, his bewildered eyes fell upon a flushed and squirming Finny, who was gesturing politely to a stranger beside him. Ciel couldn't help but note the way his gesticulating fingers trembled ever-so-faintly, or the manner in which his free hand appeared to be pointedly covering a spot on his neck. In the distant corner, hidden beside bookshelves and a vase of moondance roses, Ronald was adjusting his glasses and straightening his shirt, looking just about as inconspicuous as a man visiting a bank while dressed as the Flash.

"Young master," Finny said a second time, lilted voice unusually husky as he again garnered the devil's wandering attention. Ciel reacted at once: head snapping back towards his old gardener and this new guest, stare bright with unabashed confusion. And that confusion grew exponentially as he finally grasped the sight before him, jaw dropping in gawked astonishment. He likely looked a fool. He couldn't bring himself to care. Rather, something in what the not-boy saw must have short-circuited his already haywire brain, for in the next moment he was in a state of juvenile shock— pointing a wild, accusatory finger at the stranger in question. "Young master, this is—"

"Who in Satan's name invited _George Clooney_ to my wedding?" Ciel demanded loudly, glaring over his shoulder at Grelle and her husband. The reaper, rather than affect any trace of remorse (or, really, any sign that she was paying attention to Ciel at all), guilelessly giggled and turned her gaze to the bananas that she'd set aside for the fruit salad. Will's responding moan was as good a cue as any to give up hope on them; the devil decided to look away and address the supposed movie star himself—all salt-and-pepper hair and suave five-o'clock shadow of him. "What are you doing here? Don't you have some goats to be staring at?"

The man-who-would-be-famous answered by way of a vividly amused silence, allowing Ciel his ranting and rude gestures for a while longer. ("Shouldn't you be off somewhere putting the "ER" into "error"? Or busy spying on kids?") With each befuddled command and comment, the stranger's lopsided smile grew by sparkling white teeth. ("Why didn't you just burn your invitation after reading? Let's hear some confessions of your dangerous mind!") In very little time at all, the young devil had worked himself into a pink-faced frenzy, and was left a panting mess: brittle chest heaving as if he'd just run a marathon. While he still looked highly suspicious of the stranger, it did eventually occur to Ciel that his demand for answers might actually be met if he'd shut the heck up. Or stop jabbing his finger at his guest. Though the latter of these two things, it seemed, didn't bother the visitor much; as soon as Ciel remembered how to hold his tongue, George's doppelganger reached out and grabbed said finger, using it to yank the once-child into his open arms.

"What are you doing, you leatherhea—? … oh…"

What the… had someone just upped the thermostat? For some strange reason, the room now felt very, very warm. And no, not simply because of his sudden proximity to a new source of body heat. Potent body heat… toasty. Like a sauna. Maybe that was why he felt a touch dizzy…? Damn, he hadn't felt this lightheaded since the 70s, back when Sebastian had showed him how to fashion a liquor out of catnip…

No, focus brain!

"W-well…?" the woozy demon rasped in way of prompting, clasped finger shuddering in the stranger's velvet hold. His mouth felt unusually dry, and his cheeks unusually hot. And his pants— oh, that cleared his head. Dear lord, he didn't even _like _George Clooney movies; what _was _this?

"…'well'?" the doppelganger finally echoed, chuckling to himself as he used a ginger knuckle to tilt his captive's porcelain chin. His voice, unsurprisingly, was just as sinfully sultry as his sylphlike smirk. If he wasn't so busy trying to remember how to breathe, Ciel would mock him for his Harlequin Romance triteness. "That's a rather deep subject, wouldn't you say? Wet, too." A pause; the grin widened. "…get it?"

A cricket chirped.

Ronald started, looking towards a pot of petunias. Knees wobbling visibly as he propelled himself forward, the reaper left with a muttered parting of: "…I'll get the pesticide…"

Sans his shuffle, the room remained silent; once it was clear that no one was going to laugh, the intruder did so himself, clearly relishing his own horrible pun. Ciel couldn't help but notice that his breath—when it wafted over his face—smelled sweet… familiar. Almost as familiar as that atrocious sense of humor. The once-earl's brow furrowed in hazy contemplation, even as the attractively grizzled gentleman ran willowy fingers through his hair. And not in a soothing way, it should be mentioned. What the hell was this weirdo doing, looking for lice? He was acting very much like a famer surveying a potential mount. Um, horse. "But my, my… aren't you a little spitfire?" the debonair stranger continued cheerfully, the classy crows' feet beside his eyes becoming even more pronounced in his tickled delight. "A charming creature, really— I can see why Mallie-bird would be so very possessive of you. Never did learn to share, that one."

"Oooo~" As lookalike-George's palms cupped Ciel's colorful face, Grelle's keen penetrated the tense, hot air like a long, hard… er, knife. At first, it wasn't apparent if she was reacting to Will (who was brazenly kissing his way down the sweeping camber of her neck) or their guest's words… Perhaps it would be safest to assume it was a little of both. Whatever the case, she had soon turned her lust-bleary gaze upon her temporary charge and was throatily tut-tutting him. "Speaking of Sebastian-darling—" ("I'd rather you didn't," Will mumbled into her skin), "—he may be home at any time~ So you best scuttle off, pet! We don't want the groom to be seeing the bride, ah, _prematurely_~"

…_pet_? Eyebrows nearly disappearing above his hairline, leaning as far back from the stranger as his ensnared body would allow, Ciel leveled the sweet-mouthed Grelle an incredulous stare, features scrunched in bafflement. What the hell sort of endearment was that? What happened to 'brat'? This wasn't because he'd kissed her, was it? Because there was no reason that a kiss should make anyone so shamelessly amorou—

"_Mgph—?_"

Two thoughts soundly beat any other ponderings out of Ciel's mind in the following instant. The first and more coherent of the bunch was that this Clooney clone must have spent a good deal of time in Europe (as a good German, perhaps), if this was how he took to greeting people. The second thought was more along the lines of frantic keyboard smash and cartoonish symbols used in place of more questionable language. Eyes wide, arms flailing, and feet kicking violently against the shins of the surprisingly strong stranger, Ciel's mouth nevertheless remained suctioned to his guest's face, and George (?) didn't seem to be planning to let go any time soon.

"_Mgph? MMMMgbasch—mmgdnnn…nnn…. _Nnn…" The petite demon bleatingly moaned, half-swallowed voice hitching as his violent squirming became less violent and more… squirmy. His face, already pink, was quickly growing red; since he didn't really need to breathe, it likely wasn't from oxygen deprivation. Finny, who was still standing rather awkwardly beside their grabby guest (waiting patiently to finish his introduction, no doubt), blinked innocently at the scene before him and made an understanding sound at Ciel's initial confusion.

"I know, young master…" the gardener agreed, nodding in response to a particularly guttural "_mgph._" "But this 'hello' is nothing compared to how he said 'goodbye' to his wife."

In the kitchen, leaning comfortably against the counter, Grelle smiled genially at the good-natured quip, seeing as the young devil was in no position to do so himself. (Though his current position was good for a few other things…) "Isn't it nice to see people so in love, even after a few millennia?" she cooed, her hums a trifle huskier than normal—which, prior to this moment, hadn't seemed possible. Will's hands ran up and down her sides, fingers catching on the edges of her top; from somewhere down the hall, Ronald called a question about killing insects with chocolate-flavored lube, since that seemed more readily available than Raid. His inquiry was drowned out by his suit-clad superior.

"Well, it helps that they don't seem particularly harried about monogamy…"

"Now now, that's not true at all!" With a wet snapping sound and an airy groan of befuddlement, a dazed Ciel's head fell heavily upon the shoulder of the protesting visitor, his silvery lashes fluttering like one who had recently chugged a GHB-laced jello shot. The speaker then twisted 'round to regard the reaper, looking puckishly affronted. "I would never cheat on my dear Lilith; she'd have my head in exchange! Both of them." A brief pause. Once again, no one bothered to feign amusement at the horrid pun; even the cricket stayed quiet. Instead, the stranger took care of the laugh track himself. "No," he continued, waving a dismissive hand, "the worst I do is wantonly murder the husbands of those I take an interest in. Oh—not that you need to worry about that, my dear." With a sheepish chuckle, the movie star duplicate returned his attention to the drooling Ciel: gently tipping his chin and offering another jovial grin. "I am quite taken with you, but as I said before— my son never quite learned how to share."

_…son_? In an attempt to physically express how much this announcement bemused him, Ciel tried to blink in surprise… but his lids couldn't seem to synchronize their timing. Well, that was embarrassing. But though his eyes and arms and a few other appendages below the waist were experiencing serious technical difficulties, his brain did, finally, manage to catch up. To some degree. "…s'wait…" the young demon slurred, driving himself backwards with a pointed push. Trembling fingers clung drunkenly to the stranger's shoulders, keeping him tipsily upright. He wished some blood flow would return to his feet—it'd make it easier to stand. And had using his tongue always been this cumbersome? Mmm… tongue. No, wait—_focus_. "Yur… yur Sebasschan's…"

The man who was not George Clooney—or even a man, really—beamed. "It is a pleasure to finally make the acquaintance of the scintillating little creature my beloved Mallie-bird is marrying," he cooed, ivory teeth winking as his black eyes crinkled. But there—there, deep in the pupil, was a momentary flash of vermillion fire. "I am Asmodeus, ruler of the Second Circle, husband to Lilith, and soon to be your loving papa-in-law." He laughed again (giggled more like it) and Ciel was suddenly and vividly reminded of the father of another fiancé that he'd had, so many years in the past. "You can call me Daddy, if you like. In fact, I insist on it~"

…even if the effects of the demonic aura of the lust-sect's king hadn't rendered him virtually speechless, Ciel doubted he'd have had much to say to that.

Perhaps he and Sebastian should be flattered, in retrospect. Out of all of the billions of people in the world, for the universe to have personally decided to have it out for them was sort of an honor.

Sort of.

**10:03 AM**

Sebastian realized, of course, that excusing himself from the bedroom was a waste of effort. Seedy back alley motels weren't exactly famous for their soundproof walls; his conversation would have been audible even if he'd meandered half-way down the asbestos-bedecked hallway. But if he had no other talents, the devil was exceedingly good at putting up a front… disguises and façades, yes, those were his fortes. So when his cell phone began to chime a midi version of the Wedding March, he offered the woman in bed beside him an apologetic smile and wandered purposefully to the bathroom. She didn't bother asking why—just watched him leave with a smoldering gaze, luscious lips curling up in knowing amusement. Even as he firmly closed the door behind him, the devil knew that she would be eavesdropping as if her life depended on it; at least this way it would be a fraction more difficult for her to do so. In afterthought, Sebastian also pushed in the button lock on the handle (like that'd really stop her, if she put her mind to it) before sliding open his cell phone.

"Ciel?" the butler greeted in confusion, careful to keep his raw voice low. Still, the murmured name reverberated off of the cold tile floor and the dusty porcelain of the tub basin, resounding over again in his ears. Sebastian tried to dampen the effect by sliding the shower curtain closed; the sticky plastic sheeting whined in his grip, and the copper rings screeched along the rusty pole. In the cloudy mirror across the way, Sebastian's framed reflection was contorted in perplexity, features unusually sallow in the yellow glow of the cheap overhead light. "Little one, what's—?"

"_You… have serious Daddy issues… you f-freak…_"

The husky accusation was as unexpected, bizarre, and ridiculously cryptic as similar telephone greetings given by shadowy monsters in horror films like _The Ring_. Or, at least, alternate versions of such. Maybe an outtake that would have kept Ronald from wetting himself all over his couch, or Grelle from cutting the phone lines in his apartment. ("You idiots," Ciel had berated, smacking the reapers upside the head with an empty bowl of popcorn. "We don't even _own_ VHS tapes anymore! The only way she'd get us here is through a haunted internet meme featuring lolcats!" And though he'd just gotten buttery kernels all over Sebastian's clean living room floor, Ciel had been righ—) Oh—oh, Ciel. On the phone. Yes, _The Ring_ wasn't the point right now… well, er, it was, but no—no, wait, what was going on? Sebastian faltered, brow furrowing as he tried to remember himself… But in the end was forced to surrender, his expression as nonplussed as his rebuttal. "…what?"

A snort, followed by an exasperated groan. At least, the demon _thought_ it sounded exasperated… mostly. "_D-don't you… h-hah… act all innocent with me…_" Ciel heatedly scoffed, the words hushed, rasped, and wheezy. On the other end of the line, someone was frantically fidgeting: the whispered sounds of rustling clothes and rubbing thighs rang in Sebastian's ears with the same crystal clarity as his fiancé's gruff insults. "_T-that… father of yours… he looks j-just like… your movie star man-crush…. Nnn…"_

…the _fu_—?

"He does not!" It was almost kind of funny, really, what one could overlook when instinct took over; oblivious to the randomness of his charge's allegation, Sebastian merely squawked in horrified disgusted, so utterly taken aback that he momentarily forgot to keep his voice down. Or to ask where the hell that cruel assertion had come from, anyway. Because _honestly, _the very _idea_—! "My father looks _nothing _like George Clooney!" the butler griped, thin lips curling into an alarmingly moe pout. "And I wish you would stop calling him my man-crush. It makes me sound unfaithful."

Ciel retorted with an incredulous snort. It was almost as if he could somehow see his fiance's uncharacteristically infantile sulk —as if he was really as close as he sounded... "_H-he's George Clooney's twin…._" the not-child coldly (and breathlessly) insisted,"_with your horrible sense of humo—oh…_"

Okay, that was just crossing a line. Sebastian could _feel _the tirade swelling, now— he was already internally constructing his argument with the same skill and swiftness he used when building one of his Lincoln Log sculptures. Only, you know. With more verbs and adjectives than pseudo stumps and beams. "George Clooney is a gift from the gods of acting," Sebastian growled, lower lip sticking out and fist on an equally thrust hip. "To even _suggest_ what you are is worse than blasphemy! Would you scribble over the Mona Lisa with crayo— …alright, bad example, I know we needed to up our evil quota that month. But I digress! Clooney and his fans everywhere would be— wait."

The elder devil froze again, forehead deeply furrowed as… hold on a minute… ah, there it was. His brain. It had decided to catch up with the conversation. And now that it was here, he couldn't help but realize that something was… off, with this discussion. Something slightly more specific than "everything." Wearing a sober frown, Sebastian forcibly pushed aside his repulsion and defensiveness long enough to acknowledge the garish, pink, metaphorical elephant loitering impatiently in the room. "…you met my father?" Sebastian deduced, once again proving that he could be quite the detective when he put his mind to it. Maybe next he'd figure out the parental control locks Ciel had installed on his laptop. "Even though I warned you to stay away in my text?"

The younger devil choked on another guttural grunt of strained laughter, his head falling against an unseen wall with a hollow _thud. _Each rattling gasp he expelled into his telephone's mouthpiece was exacerbated by the fuzzy warmth of white static. "_Yeah… 'bout that— anyone ever tell you… mmgh~ t-that brevity is the soul of wit…?_"

"…but I wasn't trying to be funny," Sebastian returned meekly, a frown curdling the corners of his mouth. But that was hardly the point, or his main concern. Something about this whole charade was niggling away at him… something about Ciel. Something that made his stomach twist in familiar ways. But why would an argument make his belly feel so…? No, wait… Lowering the toilet's cracked lid with his free hand, the butler went ahead and lowered himself, as well—elbows resting on his parted knees as a sudden revelation hit him hard. (No pun intended.) In the midst of his surprise (first at the call itself, then at Ciel's indictment), he'd somehow overlooked a detail that, in retrospect, was rather glaring and obvious and… um, intimate. It was a situation that called for tact, subtlety. Decorum. But in lieu of that, he employed a flat accusation.

"Ciel, are you masturbating?"

The little demon on the other end of the phone whimpered softly, breath hitching as his hair shifted and hissed. He likely had the phone sandwiched between his head and the partition, as his hands were… otherwise occupied. "_Y-yes... I dunno… what happened, but… ah~_!"

As another strangled moan squeaked its way through Ciel's pursed lips, Sebastian felt his own throat constrict, tighten. Funnily enough, it was a reaction mimicked by his sweatpants. But even still, the frustration in the elder devil's groan didn't seem to stem from a sexual source. At least, a good half of it didn't. "My love, please tell me you didn't succumb to baser urges in front of Grelle..." the butler pleaded, dragging a clammy hand down his face. He'd like to think his fiancé had a bit more self-control, but demons weren't exactly designed to resist impulsiveness or temptation, and that was his father's specialty. Thinking on it rationally, Sebastian was a touch surprised that he couldn't hear the telltale sounds of a raging orgy trickling from his earpiece… Instead, he was privileged to a single devil's insulted (albeit very horny) growl.

"_'C-course not…I'm in… the closet~!_" Ciel's hiccupped rebuttal was punctuated by a keen, the tail end of which almost managed to smother Sebastian's involuntary snicker. His baby bird snarled again to censure the immature giggling—he hadn't called to be belittled— but really. He'd walked right into that one…

"You haven't been in the closet for years," Sebastian rejoined glibly, unable to keep from smiling. His grin only grew when Ciel groaned again, though this time the response was more a reaction to annoyance than appetence.

"_S-shut up—!_" the younger demon snapped, heels drumming feverishly against some undetected surface. The mundane riposte rather underwhelmed Sebastian; in a long life seasoned by brilliant witticisms and shrewd retorts, 'shut up' was the best his tamer could manage? This was a sad moment to behold indeed… But then, given the circumstances, the butler was willing to let it slide. Slide, much like Ciel's hand was surely d—okay, no, not going there. Sucking down a deep, steadying breath, Sebastian then offered his absent charge another lopsided smirk. "_Dun… wanna hear it…_"

"Well, if you didn't want to hear it, why did you call me?"

The once-earl's hiccupped response was his umpteenth hitched groan, desperate and impious. As if unaffected, the butler hummed and smiled: privately pleased at how his fiancé so effortlessly managed to weave the "want" back into "wanton." Devious musings birthing a sensuous smirk, the servant's lacy lashes half-lowered to hood his wily gaze. And when his baby bird finally offered his reckless response… "_Needed… to hear your voice—!"_

Ruddy irises flashed vermillion; ivory fangs winked white.

"Ah… Therein lies our problem, I'm afraid." Oh yes, Sebastian was very amused, now. So much so, he somehow managed to ignore his own growing… problem. Shifting atop the toilet seat, he looped one lithe leg over the other and affected an unperturbed air. As he'd said before: he was all about the façades… "I cannot shut up _and_ keep talking."

And there, an answer: Ciel's exasperation was definitely flirting on the edge of blatant fury, at this point. But in an adorably erotic way, as was his wont; Sebastian felt a tingling shiver race down his spine as his precious charge hissed, sounding deliciously feral and feline as he choked on a number of coarse and colorful curses, each lovingly directed at his fiancé. "_F-fine…_" Ciel begrudgingly conceded, spitting with rage in response to Sebastian's teasing provocations. "_If you c-can… say something— something that won't—hah—piss me off—!"_

…huh.

At a bit of a loss, Sebastian blinked once, mouth half-open as his befuddled gaze fell upon the floor. Something that wouldn't annoy the young master…? He pondered on this prompt for a long, lazy moment, looking wholly and innocently thoughtful—as if unaware of Ciel's shallow gulps and gasps as they rang in his ears, wispy and frantic. The younger devil was on the ledge, balancing precariously, just _begging_ for that final push over the precipice and into pleasure: the one, perfect word to send him careening over the edge—

"…parfait?" Sebastian offered blithely.

"_Ah— AH…!" _As was his prerogative and duty as a servant of Phantomhive, it seemed that the butler had chosen his word well; Sebastian smiled affectionately, downcast gaze warm, as the not-child on the other end of the line released an appreciative cry, then lapsed into a series of hoarse huffs and puffs, voice aching with weariness. There was another collection of static-riddled noises as Ciel succumbed to a slovenly slump against the back wall of his closet, still fighting for breath. "_H-hah… hah… oh… Sebastian…_"

They lapsed into an airless hush, not exactly awkward but certainly rife with an odd tenseness. There was a muted rumple of readjusted clothing on either side of the line; Sebastian wished rather fervently that he could do more than just find new ways to cross and uncross his legs. But he couldn't go home quite yet, and considering… current company… he didn't really feel like rectifying the situation in other ways. Choosing instead to focus on the humor of the situation, rather than the throbbing pain, the elder devil raked a hand through his bangs and shattered the heavy silence with a meaningful cough.

"…well then. I have heard of some bizarre pre-wedding romps," he commented flippantly, "but I think that has got to take the cake. Or the parfait. I propose that we never speak of this moment again."

Ciel offered no words of rebuttal or complaint—only a satiated sigh and a distracted grumble. "_Wha… what happened, anyway…?_" he tiredly demanded, still working valiantly to gather his thoughts and reaffirm his barring. Oh, he sounded so endearingly confused in the wake of baser mollifications; Sebastian longed to be there beside him, to be cuddling his treasured tamer, maybe kissing those puzzled thoughts out of his min—no, wait, shit. Glowering darkly, Sebastian stood from his makeshift seat and stormed over to the locked door, giving the wood (_Poor word choice, there, Sebastian_—!) a warning bang with his fist. The woman beyond merely laughed._ "Your father… What did he do to me…?" _

Still glaring at the innocuous barrier between himself and the current source of his ire, Sebastian sighed and allowed himself the luxury of leaning against the wall. It helped offset the unexpected weakening of his knees. "My parents…" the demon confessed in a gruff and faltering way—as embarrassed as any teenager forced to talk about his sires, "are the king and queen of the Second Circle of Hell. Which, as you may recall, predominately focuses on the concept of Lust." Clearing his throat rather awkwardly, Sebastian gave the door another angry rap. They weren't going to play games like this; he'd suffered enough during puberty, thank you. "They are… physically built… to perpetuate their given Sin."

The not-boy on the other end said nothing for a moment; even the echo of his breathing had all but vanished. Such stillness, Sebastian knew, served as prelude to dawning realization… to the start of unclouded understanding… to a crapton of mounting vexation directed entirely at this fucked up (_dammit, the puns—!_) world that they lived in. Because _seriously._ "_…I suppose this explains quite a bit, now that I think on it,_" Ciel eventually droned, the words weak and wry. Sebastian arched a prompting eyebrow, regardless of whether or not his master could see it. It hardly mattered either way: the younger of the two wasted no time in pressing on. "_About your particular skills, I mean. As well as your workaholic nature._"

Despite himself, despite the situation, the butler couldn't help but allow a tiny, amused grin to worm its way onto his face, softening the hard, anxious angles of his countenance. It was just as well; smiling helped loosen the knot in his gut, calming the elder demon considerably. Ciel sounded exasperated, perhaps, but not angry… And he had a right to be angry, all things considered. Perhaps a shorter text, along the lines of "AVOID MY DAD" would have been more appropriate and helpful, in hindsight. "They do enjoy taking their work with them…" Sebastian feebly agreed, lifting a hand to massage his tender temples.

"_I'd wager that _they_ never almost-fail to fill their monthly evil quotas._"

A wispy gust of air escaped Sebastian's drawn lips, the sound embellished by a laugh. "It helps that they get to set their own quotas, seeing as they are in charge. One of the perks, as they say," he tacked on dryly, lids lowering lightly as he curled all the closer to his phone. With his eyes shut, he could almost pretend that they were side by side…

Hidden in the depths of some distant, shadowed closet, Ciel offered a tickled grunt of his own, but nevertheless attempted valiantly to maintain the proper levels of sarcasm in his cynical drawl. Reputation, and all of that. "_In that case," _the once-earl proposed, a note of deviltry woven into his liquescent drawl,_ "shouldn't there be a way for us to get out of those bothersome late fees? They're as persistently maddening as those credit card adverts, but with a higher tendency to spontaneously combust and stink up the kitchen." _

Oh, Notices… The mere thought had Sebastian groaning, trying not to remember how long it generally took to scrub the charred remains of brimstone-scented leaflets from his already-abused countertop. As if the imprint of Ronald's butt wasn't embellishment enough… "Well… it comes down to Balance, I'm afraid," the butler nevertheless elucidated. Shaking his head, he fashioned himself a smirk to wear whilst explaining away the mysteries of the cosmos. "And this is where we get into some rather heavy theological discussions—"

Or not. For as soon as Sebastian began to relax, almost forgetting that he was currently resting against the locked door of a hotel room toilet—not lounging in lazy, post-coitus bliss with Ciel somewhere far more (or less, possibly) sanitary— reality decided it was high-time to strike with the ruthlessness of a serial killer with a baseball bat. There was even a violent, cracking crash to exacerbate this metaphor; the sudden, ear-ringing _bang _had both Sebastian and Ciel gasping and scrambling, bodies stiffening in far less pleasant ways than previously. "Ciel—?"

But Sebastian wasn't the only one calling out his little master's name. Despite the rapid string of heartfelt curses currently being spat into the not-boy's receiver, the servant could still hear a familiar, sing-song voice demanding his fiancé's immediate attention— a playful mix of irritation and disappointment dancing around the corners of each lilted word.

…save it all.

_"Cieeeeel~!_" Grelle. A boisterous, cooing, quickly-approaching Grelle. Each elongated vowel swelled in volume and vigor, the not-boy's name pointedly underscored by the spongy shuffle of high-heels marching along plush carpet. As if in answer, clothing started to rustle more anxiously; the younger demon began demanding the realms Below to send rains of fire, as well as a pair of pants with fewer buttons. Sebastian resisted the urge to violently face-palm. "_Little brat, what are you doing in there? Not trying to warm cold feet, I ho—? Oh-_ho_…!"_

So much for never speaking of this again…

A guilty shuffle; an offended squeal. For his own sake, Sebastian chose to assume that Ciel had managed to stuff himself back into his slacks, at this point. He just wished he felt more confidence in that assumption… and no, Grelle's schoolgirl giggles were not helping.

"_I apologize, indeed~ Big brat, then?_"

Sweet Satan.

_"Don't look at me like that— Will was all but dry-humping you on the countertop!" _the once-earl snapped over a barrage of obnoxious twitters, his howl of indignation muffled by turning his purpling face. But such a tactic was hardly effective; when it came to his poor, abused countertops, the elder demon could hear a bacteria-riddled pin drop from 20 miles away. And whether it be pin or straw, that was what finally broke the demon's back. With an incensed splutter, Sebastian scrambled again to his feet—glowering at his cell phone as if giving the device the evil eye would somehow stop otherworldly beings from making out in his kitchen. 

"Wha— Will and Grelle, too? What in Hell's name is _wrong _with you people?" the sickened devil snapped—regrettably loud—having temporarily forgotten about the sensitivity of supernatural ears in the wake of so much rage. Which would simply serve to make the situation worse, of course… "We need to _eat _off of those countertops—!"

_"Ah hah~!_" Oh—dammit. Now Grelle _knew _it was him. (Not that it would have been anyone else, but…) Automatically— but belatedly— clamping a hand over his open mouth, Sebastian's brain decided that _now_ would be a good time to randomly remember that whole thing about shinigami having impressive hearing, themselves. Of course, to be completely honest, even certain members of the Deaf community had likely been able to hear _that _outburst…

In short, they were both thoroughly Grelle's trilled _"Is that Sebastian-darling's voice I hear? Tsk tsk!_" made perfectly clear.

A _fwump_ of a downy jacket; a _squeak _of mussed leather. Apparently attempting to shimmy up piles of his own heaped clothes, the younger devil sneered and spat in protest, likely offering the reaper a baleful glare to boot. "_I can talk to him if I want!" _Ciel asserted dourly, uncharacteristically immature in this demonstration of petulance. Almost like the whiney teenager he'd never had a chance to be in his human life. But technically, he was correct. It was _their _wedding, after all, and it wasn't as if they were the most traditional of couples to begin with. Why should old-fashioned superstitions succeed where morals, Contractors, and eternity had failed? They should be able to spend as much time together as they desired. This was inane! Why were they letting Grelle push them around, anyway? She wanted too much, and the only thing he was willing to give was a piece of his mind. "_You don't have the right to tell me to do anything! Or him! You can't stop us! And you can't stop m—hey, give me back my phone!" _

A struggle erupted on the other end of the line; clearly Grelle believed in fighting fire with fire, and immaturity with immaturity. In his mind's eye, Sebastian could rather clearly picture her dangling the cellular over Ciel's head, just out of his reach.

Morals, Contractors, and eternity had failed, but enter one traditionally-minded grim reaper and… well.

…this was all extraordinarily pathetic, wasn't it? Sebastian returned to rubbing his throbbing temples as the clamoring commotion continued in the depths of Ciel's closet, peppered by such titillating repartee as "_Meanie!" _and "_Gimmie!_" and other such singularly-worded charges and insults. Should he begin to hear slapping, he'd have no choice but to assume they'd succumbed to a catfight. Oh, how the mighty have fallen… Once upon a time, he had been a feared and formidable devil. Really. Though even _he_ found it difficult to believe during moments like this…

"_Haha, well, I'd spank you for disobedience, bratty-poo, but it seems you've already spanked yourself to completion, hmmm~? _"

…wow. That wasn't just crossing a line, that was strapping on a jet pack and blasting yourself over it at supersonic speeds. Temporarily distracted from his own melancholic musings, Sebastian leveled the phone a flat glare, nose scrunched in the wake of such crassness. "That's _disgusting_, Grelle_." _

_"The mess our favorite little one made is what's disgusting~" _

"_Rgh— I mean it, Grelle! I'm ordering you to— Don't touch that butto—!"_

Unfazed and unthreatened, another taunting laugh rang through the demon's earpiece: good-natured in its vindictiveness, but still… well, annoyingly vindictive. No guesses as to what the shinigami was just about to do. "_Your bride-to-be says bye bye, Sebastian-darling~!_" Grelle keened into the phone, smacking her lips to simulate a blown kiss. The popping of her puckered mouth hadn't even faded to a full silence before the sound cut out completely; Sebastian was left with nothing but a dial tone and a headful of horrified musings. And pants that felt much, much looser.

He needed to get back home, _now. _

"It's time to leave." With his usual swiftness and efficiency for multitasking, Sebastian snapped his cell phone shut with one hand and swung open the flimsy door with the other. To her credit, the devil's current company had not gone so far as to take a glass to the wall; rather, she remained atop the mussed mattress, just as she'd been before he left. To some ignorant onlooker, it might not have been apparent that she was snooping at all: she even went so far as to jolt in surprise upon Sebastian's sudden return, blinking up at him with innocuous black eyes full of wordless questions. But the ruse hardly lasted for long. In the next moment, her ruby lips had bowed themselves into a toothy, knowing smile, as if she simply couldn't bear to fool the world with such a clever front of ignorance for any longer. Right, because she had been so convincing. Also, Sebastian was a llama.

"But we can't leave yet," the woman simpered, lifting her lithe limbs and opening them wide. Beneath the coarse coverlet, she rubbed her porcelain knees and wiggled expectantly, sheets of raven hair swathing her sensual person like a second blanket of silky satin, draped luxuriously over her slender shoulders. "Nearly a thousand years apart, and all I get is a single night of cuddling~? And only _that _thanks to blackmail? Whatever happened to the fledgling who would whine and whimper whenever I set him down to dole out punishment to damned souls?"

For an agitated spell, the taunt of the memory—much like her teasing giggles—hung in the air as a near-tangible entity, then fell to deposit a dusting of childish pink across the demon's cheeks. Scowling (as if that might somehow counteract the blush), Sebastian crossed stubborn arms over his chest and growled. And perhaps—just by virtue of current company— his brow may have furrowed a bit, and his bottom lip pouted out a touch, too. "_Mother_…"

The endearment was a spoken with bitterness and impatience, as it had been spoken to so many mothers over the eons. Lilith, however, unlike a good number of those others, remained entirely at ease in the face of such a disrespectful attitude, merely laughing at her son's obstinate irritation. "Oh, calm your tail feathers, darling," the youthful queen purred, rolling dark eyes so much like her husband's. And speaking of her husband… "You know that your father is only acting out of love. Love for you, and for this Ciel Phantomhive of yours. Should families _not_ be affectionate?"

Lilith's casual retort was answered by an irritated groan; Sebastian scrubbed wearily at his eyes, sinking back atop the bed. (His mother's grin shone with obvious glee.) "There is a difference, Mother, between affection and sexual harassment," the devil curtly informed, leveling the woman beside him an acidic glare. Her response with another innocent flutter of her lashes, as if taken aback by this bombshell of a revelation.

"Is there?" Lifting a finger to her chin, Lilith's gaze slid musingly upward, her murmured voice thoughtful as she rolled the declaration around in her mind. A moment of consideration; another smirk, then a shrug. "Well, you learn something new every day~" she sang, wearing a beam so bright that Sebastian was certain it was meant to mock him.

And yet, at the same time, he wasn't altogether sure if she was kidding, anymore. The fact grated at his nerves, already worn from so many hours apart from Ciel.

"_Mother_. Please." The butler's voice was taut, tense. His half-hearted glower equally so—like some tormented hero from the pages of a trashy romance novel. Always the drama queens, her boys; histrionic to the core. In the back of her mind, Lilith wondered blandly if maybe she should have signed them up for tortured-soul's-foot-ball, rather than jazz-and-tap classes, back in their youth. But oh well. No helping their spinelessness, now…

"Oh, don't look at me like that, silly goose," Lilith admonished with a laugh, leaning over to boop a kiss to the tip of Sebastian's wrinkled nose. (He immediately made a show of scrubbing her affection away; her aura was bad enough, no need to add fluids to the mix. Of course, this overblown reaction only served to amuse his mother more.) With a final, fanged smile, the demon queen slid from the rumpled nest of the bed, smoothing down the slinky, low-cut negligee she'd decided to dress herself in. Inappropriate attire, perhaps, for dealing with one's son, but hey— Sebastian wasn't complaining. At least she'd decided to dress at all. "You worry far too much. Besides, while your father may work for Satan, he would never be so cruel as to steal his son's fiancé away. Particularly not," the she-devil coolly continued, "when _I'm _here." Gliding gracefully over to the shabby closet, Lilith paused long enough to shoot her child a lengthy leer, superficially sweet but deeply devious. Despite the unnervingly stretchy curve of her pliant lips—the way her mouth's pinches clawed at her eyes, untamed and ravenous— the expression nevertheless set Sebastian's heart at ease… sort of. But in the next moment, it didn't matter anyway, for Lilith pulled something from the cabinet's mildew-scented depths that made him forget everything else.

"Oh…" For the first time in… well, a distressingly long while, the soft breath that Sebastian released wasn't riddled with anxiety or exasperation; rather, it was a sigh rife with relief and appreciation. Countenance correspondingly buoyant in its bright-eyed satisfaction, the younger devil, too, stood and wandered towards the closet—outstretched hands reaching for the garb that hung from a hook looped around his mother's finger. "Oh, mother, it looks… how did you…?"

Lilith, visibly amused by her child's uncharacteristic display of wordless wonderment, arched a sprightly eyebrow and smirked. In doing so, it was clear whose smile Sebastian had inherited. "As the Queen of the Second Circle, it is only natural that I should be able to mend a moth-eaten suit, don't you think?" the not-woman chuckled, running willowy fingers up and down one repaired wool sleeve. The darned black fabric shone beneath her delicate touch; silver embellishments gleamed like distant stars in the sallow light of the bedside lamp. "It was, I suppose, somewhat onerous to find a spool of matching thread from a year so far in the past… and collecting all of the buttons that you and your master had bartered off over the centuries was a bit of a challenge, as well. I'd rank it up there with a 1000 piece jigsaw puzzle, in terms of difficulty. It took me an entire afternoon."

As she spoke, his mother's sardonic sneer softened into something teasing and sweet—a genuine glitter of gratitude flickering into life in the ruddy depths of her eyes. Prior to this, she hadn't heard from her Mallie-bird in so, so long; it was always nice to know that, despite everything, she was needed. As Sebastian gingerly accepted the restored garb, folding it carefully over one crooked arm, he too offered a gentle grin. Then he leaned over and brushed a kiss of his own to Lilith's sericeous cheek, mouth quirked in appreciation and joy. "Thank you, Mama," he murmured as he did so, leisurely straightening as he hugged the outfit to his chest. "With this, everything will be perfect."

The declaration resounded with sincerity. It its wake, Lilith fashioned her features into a mask of theatrical surprise.

"…really? Is that _all_ you needed?" she intoned, voice light with roguish mischief as she lifted her left hand. The right, from which the plastic hanger had been dangling, coiled behind her back when she elevated the other; idly, the curled fingers of her fist unfurled, revealing something round and burnished shining in the cup of her palm. "Then whatever should I do with these?"

Sebastian was, by no means, "slow:" not mentally, not physically, not in any sense of the word. (Except, perhaps, when Ciel asked him t—save it _all_; that blasted aura!) Even still, it took the demon a full minute to truly realize what he saw lying there, so lovely and solid, in his mother's open hand. Had she really…? Could it possibly…? When the truth finally registered, his already-wide eyes widened a fraction more. Jaw dropping a startled half inch, the younger devil glanced from the gift to his mother and back, as if he couldn't quite believe what his own senses told him. But then—just as suddenly as anything— he chortled. And he smiled. And he accepted the proffered present with a teasing soft of leer, nuzzling his nose against his sire's in a childish pseudo-kiss. "As the Queen of the Second Circle, yes..?" he then prompted, anticipating her explanation long before she had a chance to give it. After all, like mother like son.

Lilith snorted, grin squirming as she happily endured Sebastian's ticklish embrace. "Finding _those _was about as difficult as completing a Rubik's cube," she pronounced with a giggle, bracing herself against Sebastian's chest in the wake of this exuberant expression of gratitude. Beneath his pullover, she could feel his happy heart flutter. The sensation made her heart do the same. "Blindfolded."

Her son laughed. Slipping the cylindrical baubles safely into his suit's stitched pocket, he then looped his arm through his mother's and led her graciously towards the door, as if parody of his previous station. They were done here. And they had more important places to be. "Dare I ask how you wish to be repaid for your services?" Sebastian amicably inquired, the question impishly coquettish as he bowed the she-devil through the exit. Again, it seemed the thing to do, considering the outfit with which he had just been reacquainted. Lilith, in turn, offered a good-humored curtsy as she smirked, once more hooking elbows with her child as they stepped over the threshold.

"I believe you know my terms."

Neither filial piety, current gratefulness, nor even their cheery game of mistress-and-servant could keep Sebastian from rolling his eyes. The words added small weights to the corners of his mouth, pulling his lips into a frown… But his blustery exhalation spoke of acquiescence, even if it wasn't whole-hearted. It was just as well, anyway; he was already in enough trouble with his best friend. That wasn't to say, of course, that he had to _like _it…

"You two are nearly as bad as Claude, you know that, right?" the demon droned, flat of tone and face as he watched his mother's leer stretch, stretch, stretch—elastic and elated. Beneath her skin, plots and plans were frothing up like carbonation in celebratory champagne; each scheme shimmered in her eyes with the same opulence beauty as a bubble, leaving her nerves fizzy with excitement and gradient gladness. Oh, she was going to have such fun… Beaming blithely, as saccharine-sweet as sugar, Lilith rested her head against Sebastian's shoulder and hummed, stroking his arm to ease (or, perhaps, exacerbate) the tension in his body.

"Well, the apple never falls far from Eve, dear."

Her eldest scoffed. "I believe you mean 'from the tre—'" he began, dry correction butchered mid-syllable by a hissed yelp of surprise and pain. Glancing 'round, Sebastian managed to catch the tail-end of his mother's exploits: her deft, soothing fingers slipping back down the round of his shoulder. In her fist, she now held three silky strands of his forelocks; in an instant, her own powerful brand of magic had stripped them of their human guise. And all the while, the pretty queen smiled.

"Do I?"

**12:38 PM**

"_Every breath you take… Every move you make…_"

"So let me get this straight." Arms bound across his chest as tightly as if caught up in an invisible straightjacket (which might actually be a necessity, if this kept up), Ronald turned an incredulous glower upon his innocently baffled senior, two-toned hair mused from running frustrated hands through it. Grelle, in turn—already inching her way back to the party, armed with a platter of cheese cubes— shook her head pointedly back and fore, back and fore, the very picture of blameless virtue. "You have absolutely _no idea _how these songs got onto my _locked _wedding playlist."

"_Every bond you break… Every step you take— I'll be watching you_."

"Ronald, dear, I keep telling you— _I _certainly didn't hack my way onto your laptop last night," the vivacious redhead insisted, speaking loudly in order to be heard over the pounding baseline, the pounding feet, and the pounding fists upon the front door. In the distant background, Finny was trilling another animated salutation, followed by a polite query about what sort of fabric softener said guest used to keep their gauzy robes so radiantly opalescent. "What reason would I have had for improving a rather drab and dull playlist of cliché ceremony music?"

"_Every single day, every word you say, every game you play, every night you stay_—"

Behind thick plastic rims, Ronald leveled his friend a skeptical stare, brow furrowing as he mentally attempted to apply some sort of Sherlockian skill to this current conundrum of a mystery. For having nothing to do with its rectification, an odd number of familiar-sounding songs had magically appeared over the course of the night… songs that he was quite certain he had heard Grelle suggesting before. But in the end, Ronald was forced to concede that, in a court room setting, such a coincidence would've been seen as circumstantial, and thus wouldn't have carried much weight; he was left to merely sigh from his perch atop the counter, shooting his "improved" playlist a sidelong glance. For now, it didn't really matter, he supposed. Sebastian hadn't yet arrived, so he wasn't there to complain; Ciel (flitting around somewhere, likely trying to avoid the Trancys, his father-in-law, and… well, pretty much everyone at the current gathering), was too preoccupied to give much thought to unsuitable ditties. And as for their guests, varied as they were, they seemed united in their general apathy: after a few moments of initial confusion and soundless mouthing to one another, angels and demons alike eventually shared in a shrug before making their way to the refreshments table. (Quite quickly, once a certain king had gleefully born down upon them.) After all, so long as there was wine, there was no reason to whine, right? Or so quipped Asmodeus.

"_I'll be watching you_."

"Gabriel, my old friend! It's been too long!" With far more enthusiasm than anyone should be allowed to have without first consuming 20 pots of coffee, Asmodeus bounded, gazelle-like, from creature to creature, arms extended in friendship and welcome. Some newcomers he graced with a simple shake of the hand; others were greeted with much greater intimacy, occasionally in ways involving tongue. Judging entirely by the tone of his voice, the demonic monarch was apparently planning to physically consummate his friendship with the angel to whom he now referred. Or, at least, get in a good-natured hump. "Foretold the births of anyone of import, lately, Gabe? Perhaps in regards to the happy couple?"

"Azzy, my dear!" With equal vigor, a heavenly young man of golden robes and gemstone eyes half-skipped, half-fluttered into the packed living room, breaking away from a flock of lesser malakhim loitering near the coat closet. Folding three sets of butter-yellow wings carefully behind his broad back, the archangel reached out to clasp arms with the devil addressing him, bowing low to plant friendly kisses on both stubble-dusted cheeks. "Haha, well, if they are barren, it will certainly not be from lack of trying on your part," Gabriel teased, warmly clapping the other's shoulders. "You have been working overtime, it seems; I do believe I just saw Crowley and Aziraphale 'reacquainting' themselves in the corner~" As 'Gabe' straightened post-embrace, the sea of feathers, tails, leather, and gossamer around the pair undulated; glancing up, the angel caught sight of another familiar face before it was swept away by the living tide. "Azazel! Azazel, you cheeky thing, I see you hiding over there behind Raphael!" he bellowed, gesticulating wildly in order to catch the demon's eye. In his gusto, he nearly backhanded Alois, who was weaving in and out of the throng—dancing from creature to creature so as to introduce himself, and thoroughly relishing the outpouring of affection that resulted whenever he handed someone their goodie bag. He was such a whore for attention, it was almost surprising he hadn't worn his kimono. Or that ensemble from Victoria's Secret. "Come over here and give me a proper hello!"

"Gabby?" With a hearty laugh of surprise, Azazel— a gruff, muscular thing, dressed in armor reminiscent of a Roman gladiator— spun to face the speaker, a glass of ruby port poised before his lips. Beside him, a shorter, grimmer demon was half-eavesdropping, half-watching as a drove of chattering seraphim plugged a usurped Wii into the television, cheerfully challenging one another to games of combative karaoke. "Speak of the angel— I was just telling Leviathan, here, how long it's been since I last heard you play your horn. Perhaps you'll grace us with some of your musical brilliance tonight?"

"Whatever grating melody you chose, it'd be in better taste than the trash we're listening to right now…" the distracted Leviathan muttered into his own drink, rolling electric green eyes. Whether he was referring to the dulcet tones of The Police, or to the melodic keens of "_Holy, holy, holy is the Lord God Almighty, who was, and is, and is to come_" wasn't immediately apparent, but it was doubtful that he found either particularly pleasing. (Apparently, he wasn't alone; somewhere further back, masked by the thirsty swarm surrounding the kitchen table, a more vocal guest hollered: "For the love of— How about some Rebecca Black, if you want to torture us?") Both guests went ignored.

"Oh, I am not nearly so skilled in music as some… though perhaps I'll play for you, if you would whip out your violin for me," Gabriel returned over the spirited banter of spirits full of spirits. His grin widened in thanks as Asmodeus handed him a flute of his own; his wings rustled in ecstasy upon taking a swing of the merlot. "One more thing to anticipate about the post-ceremony party, I suppose? Besides the dancing. The blonde near the door mentioned DDR, earlier… I hear that you and Mephistopheles truly tore up the dance floor back in '29, what with your little waltz-battle in Turku. It's a pity I was so busy in France at the ti— oh!"

Drink sloshing and knees knocking, a temporarily befuddled Gabriel glanced swiftly over his shoulder, blinking after the eager Samoyed that had just drunkenly bashed into his legs. He wasn't the only one gawking: as the music faded from a song about a creepy stalker to a tune comparing love to a case of terminal cancer, Cardeno dashed, bopped, scurried, and howled after Georgina, who was weaving teasingly between the legs and leather heels of those gathered. Luka—having long-since grown bored of his cheeks getting pinched and his cute body snuggled— decided to help the dog as best he could, scampering along behind and trying to push the masses out of the animals' way. Ironically, his efforts often resulted in more unwanted hugs (he _was_ rather drawing attention to himself), but at least he provided decent entertainment. More so than the crooning seraphim, anyway.

"_When we first met you seemed fickle and shallow, but my armor was no match for your poison arrow_…"

"…well. This song at least seems _sorta_ appropriate," Ronald mumbled as he wandered randomly past, sidestepping a shrieking Luka ("Run! Run, Caredeno, you can do it—!" the not-boy was squealing dramatically, a pack of buxom she-devils gathering the precious bundle of eternal youth to their partially-exposed breasts and half-suffocating him) before nearly tripping over a caterwauling cat. Georgina, in turn, hissed at the reaper for the sheer audacity he showed in _nearing_ her loveliness, then attempted to scramble up the closest limb in the vicinity. This limb just happened to be the leg of a cragged, milky-eyed demon, who (despite his obviously blindness) was currently engaged in a rather heated staring contest with a miffed William. What's more, he appeared to be winning. And he knew it.

"_You are wedged inside my chest— If I tried to take you out now I might bleed to death… I'm feeling short of breath~_"

"Ha. Blinked again, didn't you?" the elderly creature cackled, his chuckles sharp and avian as they fell from his smirking mouth. Gloating, he lifted a gnarled finger to point mockingly at his adversary; Will, in turn, cursed bitterly, readjusting his glasses on the bridge of his nose. Georgina scrambled to make a pseudo-nest out of wispy silver hairs.

"You are an insufferable churl, Baalberith," the shinigami droned in his usual monotone, though his cheeks had turned a dusty rose in peeved humiliation. Or alcohol consumption. It was difficult to tell, anymore. "And one day, before you have a chance to realize it, your omnipotence will fail you."

No one decided to comment on that paradox.

Visibly smug, the hunched heap of tattered robes and hoary hair instead snickered and cawed, coiling veiny fists around the wooden staff that was helping to keep him upright. As Baalberith readjusted his grip, Georgina's tightrope walk down the length of his arm was interrupted; she tumbled with a yowl. "You're just jealous that we demons got all of the cool powers," Baalberith remarked, flashing feral fangs of ivory white.

What the—? Blasphemy! Notably affronted, half-choking on a gurgled gasp, the very _idea_ had his reaper companion scoffing—hand leaping to his chest like a slighted Southern belle. (Funny the little habits that one subconsciously picked up after a few hundred years of marriage.) Narrowed eyes narrowing all the more, Will wasted no time in staging a protest—

"I most certainly am _not _j—"

"I know _all_, kid."

…that was immediately and efficiently shot down. Baalberith's haughty leer remained, lengthening as William's puckered features fermented like milk, pale face twisting into a sour pout.

"… damn you."

"Pft. Too laaaaate~" Cookie in one hand and champagne in the other, the Undertaker feasted on a flurry of maniacal giggles as he watched the heated showdown, veiled gaze bouncing from devil to reaper and back as if it were some sort of tennis match. "He's already been good and damned for eons, heehee~" Crumbles of crumbs—accidentally spat out in the midst of his laughing—made a mess of his draping black turtleneck; the chimed tinkle of his decorative silver chains was drowned out by the sound of his own guffawing, as well as the rambunctious ruckus of general festivity. So enthralled was he, the death god didn't appear to notice that Georgina had managed to sink her claws into his knit sweater, and was currently dangling from his hip like a doomed mountain climber. Or a gaudy fashion piece. Her flailing back paws searched vainly for purchase against the pleather of his pants… much like another half-panicked creature was searching vainly nearby.

"_You grew on me like a tumor…_"

"Grelle, someday, I will personally disembowel you for this bullcrap music." With a shove and a groan, trying unsuccessfully to disguise his rubicund features with half-raised arms, Ciel pushed his way through the forest of legs and feathers, sandals and boots. He didn't want to look at anyone. He didn't want to make small talk. And lucky him, for the most part he was spared these tedious responsibilities: a good number of his guests had never before seen the bride-to-be, and thus were perfectly willing to leave the short, disgruntled runtling alone. They merely shot the fledgling a curious glance as he elbowed his way past, considering his presence as one might the infamous literary protagonist, Waldo. Or, perhaps, as the wandering solution to the game "one of these things is not like the others." Which, to be frank, Ciel currently embodied. Not only in terms of dress (it wasn't _his_ fault that Grelle had kicked him into the crowd before he'd had a chance to change out of his sweatpants), but also in regards to his attitude.

He was not a people person. He did not enjoy parties. He did not like strangers in his house, particularly ones with auras that made him want to violate the furniture. (What? The couch smelt like Sebastian.) But at the same time—despite everything— he couldn't hide away yet, like a "good bride should." No… There was one thing the Ciel liked less than people, less than parties, less than strangers. And that was sharing. Sweet Satan, he _hated _sharing. So before Sebastian returned home (_I'll send you a 10 minute warning text_, he'd promised; they'd both had their fill of Grelle's wrath for the day), the little devil had resolved to complete his self-appointed quest: to personally find and—

_Sha-la-la-la-la-la, music play! Do what the music say! You wanna kiss the gi—_

"Oh my… I take it that was from Sebastian, then? What a charmingly clever ringtone."

Visibly startled— both by the speaker's deductive reasoning, and by the fact that he was being spoken to at all— Ciel whipped bodily around, thumb silencing his blackberry as his eyes searched out the owner of the chipper voice. At last, his darting gaze fell upon a beautiful image of a male: tall, toned, and handsome, with two sets of powerful wings folded against the small of his back. His golden bands, shimmering shackles, and ethereal foppery made his heavenly status clear… but it was the creature's vibrant eyes that gave his identity away—stunningly blue behind the russet curls of his bangs. For a full thirty seconds, Ciel could only gawk; he was almost tempted to lift a hand and point at the angel, as well, in case his open-mouthed staring wasn't conveying his rudeness quite dramatically enough. But in the end, it didn't appear to matter; whatever his display of loutishness, it left the other completely unfazed. Rather, the angel's response to his melodramatic gaping was a mild stare of general interest: calm and patient, a grin tweaking the corners of his lips and adding delightful dimples to his cheeks. The very vision of perfection.

How disgusting.

"I apologize… did I startle you, Ciel?" the glittering vision of not-man asked deferentially, lowering the canapé on which he'd been nibbling. "I suppose it was somewhat uncouth to address you without first introducing myself… particularly when we've never officially met!" The angel grinned sheepishly, presenting his free hand in a genial sort of way. The motion stirred the air; he smelt of lilies and sunshine. "I am—well, _was_—your guardian angel during your mortal years. Not to mention an old acquaintance of Sebastian's, back when he was exclusively known as Malphas. My name is—"

"_Uriel_," Ciel finished breathlessly, finally forcing his frozen body back into action. With no further prompting, the once-earl thrust out his arm, fingers curling around the archangel's and giving it a hardy, if somewhat mechanical, shake. With each passing moment, the devil regained his charm— voice growing silken as he batted lacy lashes. "Yes… Yes, I know who you are. Forgive me my earlier discourtesy; I was a trifle taken aback. You see, I had actually been in the middle of searching for you… How serendipitous that you should spot me first, hm?"

Twenty seconds, forty five seconds, a minute passed them by, and still their fists were twined and tangled, moving boisterously up and down. If Uriel noticed how awkwardly long they'd been shaking hands, he made no show of it; the demonling, in turn, offered his guest a dazzling beam, eyes crinkling at their corners as he moved to more closely regard the being before him. "I had rather hoped that we would be able to speak in private prior to my fiancé's return, Uriel… I am to meet his mother then, you see, and won't have another chance to engage in conversation until after the ceremony. And that just wouldn't do; this matter must be dealt with at once."

"_And you spread through me like malignant melanoma_~"

It was Uriel's turn to look dumbfounded, now, if only flatteringly so. But after an instant of stupefaction, his staggered amazement melted into something far more traditionally angelic: an immaculate smile that added stars to his jewel-bright eyes. Thrilled and trusting, he did not object when Ciel gave their bound fists an encouraging tug, leading them into the uninhabited hall. "Of course, I would be honored," Uriel assured as they walked along, hand in hand. What an unexpected treat. "Whatever would you like to discuss, my dear?"

"_I guess I never knew…_"

"Well," Ciel began grandly, his spun smile as sugar-sweet as the candies and cakes that they wandered past, "funny you should mention your history with Sebastian…"

"_How fast a little mole can grow… on you_."

**2:16 PM**

"Feeling nervous…?"

"Feeling _something_. But thanks to you and your husband, I don't think it's nerves."

"You're welcome for that." On her knees before the once-earl who would soon be her son-in-law, Lilith offered a wolfish grin— ruddy gaze caressing a leisurely path up the length of his svelte body. Behind the full fan of her lashes, black irises sparkled with vermillion laughter, even as her drifting stare returned to the task at hand. And what an important task it was: one so dire that she had demanded to assist, despite vocal unwillingness and hesitancy shown from all players on all fronts. ("But I wanted to help!" Grelle had pouted, only to remember that she had a living room full of overexcited guests to entertain. "I don't even know you; I don't want you seeing me in my underwear!" Ciel had protested, even as he was shoved bodily back into the sanctuary of his bedroom. "I _also _don't want you seeing him in his underwear," Sebastian had seconded in a mutter, chewing on his own tongue to keep from saying more. He had made a promise, after all… and he wasn't about to fight with his mother. He'd lose.)

Yet, although their reluctance had arguably been justified, Lilith had not only behaved (thus far) — she had also proven herself to be an invaluable part of the preparation process. She'd tweaked, she'd hemmed, she'd fitted… she'd readjusted what needed to be readjusted, and had touched up tiny flaws that he and Grelle had somehow failed to detect. Of course, notable talent as a tailor had never before stopped Ciel from keeping a wary eye on the women who dressed him (so long as her hands were on his person, he was on High Alert), but as he observed his own transformation in the corner mirror, neither could the young demon deny that Lilith was well-versed in the ways of fashion.

Well, the devil does wear Prada, they say.

"Sebastian may be the one responsible for the plague," the queen had mentioned conversationally, fixing a frayed seam with little more than a thought, "but corsets were my idea. Of the two maladies, which has been effectively neutralized, and which is still around? As always, mother knows best~" A chipper titter, tweeted through a mouthful of pins. For the sake of everyone's good mood, Ciel kept quiet about a certain pink dress, and the revenge that he now felt obligated to extract upon his mother-in-law. But that would have to be a venture for another time; there was, in fact, something more important than dated bruises on his ego. And that was looking perfect for Sebastian.

Without the use of a corset, this time.

Or sweat pants, for that matter— or a baggy t-shirt, or mussed hair. As each minute brought Ciel closer and closer to the ceremony, so too did each minute find him more and more primed for it. The not-boy's thin lips quirked in wordless satisfaction as he regarded his own reflection, visibly pleased with his chosen attire, what it represented... It was, after all, very familiar foppery—or it had been, perhaps, prior to Grelle's artful restoration. The frilled gray of the undershirt, the taut constriction of the neck ribbon, the shadowy black of the suit coat and shorts… memories clung to the ancient fabric as heavily as the scent of his old manor, and no, not all of them were pleasant. His first few years as a demon had been… well. But (as physically painful as it was to admit) Alois had been right when he'd suggested that Ciel look once more towards his origins: if it wasn't for such beginnings, he wouldn't be standing here now, would he? And in that regard…

Despite the lack of time, Grelle had done a fabulous job renovating the tattered garb, sprucing it up and making it—in her own words— "appropriate." After all, every bride needed a train… and Ciel had long lamented that modern-day fashions were no longer keen on bustles. Two birds, one stone. And on the subject of birds… Upon Ciel's chest, spindly fingers with ebony tips skittered, scattered, and smoothed, looping lines of newly stitched, double-breasted buttons through their respective holes. From each silvery fastening, Lilith affixed a swatch of scarlet satin, adding gentle loops of vibrant color to Ciel's monochrome sides. Wrapping around and downward, the decorative swathes met in an artful knot beneath a bow above his rear, then fell in a wavy cascade of frothy folds along the floor, tickling the shins of his soft gray boots. To further compliment the crimson crimps, a rose was waiting on the bed stand to later decorate his breast pocket. Beside it, a pair of half-gloves, black to match the suit. But it was not yet time to fiddle with accessories; perfecting the lay and drape of each pleat of his bustle was the current priority.

"That wasn't really a compliment, you know," Ciel informed the damned queen in a drone, shooting the she-devil a sardonic glower whenever her eager digits wandered teasingly too far left, right, up, or down. As if this exchange was part of a game—which it almost was, at this point— Lilith would inevitably respond to his warning grumble with a brazen smirk before demurely remembering her manners. For a time. But in a way, her annoying licentiousness proved a strange comfort; disregarding the cleavage and the flowing locks, her features and mannerisms were all so similar to Sebastian's that the not-boy was left feeling like he was dealing with his fiancé himself. Perhaps that was why Ciel felt oddly at ease with this woman, even if they'd only known one another for a few hours. "In fact, I rather feel as if I owe Sebastian and Claude an apology. With parents like you and Asm—"

"Daddy." The correction was automatic— cooed around the pins that dissected Lilith's v-shaped grin.

"…I am not calling him that."

"He'll cry if you don't. Do you really want to risk furtherexposure to fluids…?"

...the universe was a cruel bitch.

"…like you and… Daddy…—" Why yes, sometimes Ciel _did _hate himself, thanks for asking— "... it's a wonder they didn't grow up to be _bigger _perverts."

The curt slur pulled a chuckle from Lilith's upturned lips. With the same concupiscent sensuality that a film noir secretary might use to seduce her boss, the demon empress undulated unhurriedly upright: hips swaying, hands trailing, smile sliding up the round of her cheeks. The deviant glimmer in the depths of her dark eyes reminded Ciel of another shameless sex fiend in his life… but the maternal gentleness lurking in those same depths made him think (for the first time in centuries) of someone else entirely. For a musing moment, Lilith merely considered her son's beloved, seemingly torn between amusement and some other distant emotion…

Then, with no warning sans her own deliberate, measured movements, Lilith reached gingerly outward—

"_Woah_, wait—what're you—?"

—and enveloped the young demon in a slow-motion hug.

Uh… "L— Lilith…?"

Markedly startled, cheeks patchy with blossoms of fuchsia, the once-earl found himself incapable of stopping his mother-in-law's careful approach, rendered motionless by his own muddled astonishment. The most he could manage was a rapid double-blink when he realized he'd been sweetly pillowed against her ample bosom, held pointedly to her torso by limbs as delicate as porcelain. A moment later, and her chin was resting atop his head, palms rubbing comforting circles into the small of his back. The scent of gardenias hung about his nose—blended with the perfumes of rouge and warm flesh. It was an… improbably familiar sort of embrace. The kind that he hadn't considered, let alone missed, in over two centuries. And maybe it was because he'd spent so much time thinking on the past, lately… But this hold was rather evocative of…

…of…

"I am sorry, little one," Lilith tenderly murmured, her sweet breath whispering over Ciel's crown and fluttering through the fine hairs of his wispy bangs. Genuine sympathy lurked in the lilt of each syllable, aching and empathetic. Silly, really; her voice was so gentle, so loving, so full of candid concern, it nearly made the once-earl laugh in incredulity. "I wish that your parents could be here, as well."

…almost.

In the aftermath of Lilith's condolences, the bark of amusement that had been burning in the back of Ciel's constricting throat curdled, died, and fell like a lead ball into the pit of his stomach. The sensation was… disarming. In laughter's stead, the young devil attempted a dry snort—but for some reason he did not entirely understand, the sound that escaped his pursed lips was rather more suggestive of a snuffle. _That_ didn't make sense… And what was wrong with his eyes? Some dust still clinging to his outfit must have been blown upwards in a cross-breeze; everything seemed much blurrier now than it had moments before. How annoying… How trite, how ridiculous, how…

…how did she…?

"…would you…" With a flinch, Ciel started, shuddered. The resonance of his voice— subdued and strained, muffled by powder-scented skin and the dregs of his own pride— caught him off guard. For a tense minute, the once-earl half-considered letting the question die… Rather, he mentally attempted to kill it off: bludgeoning the query with his dignity, his mask of apathy. But in the end, the little demon was begrudgingly forced to accept defeat. He could restrain himself no longer; the pondering burst forth with such ragged desperateness that one might think he'd kept it bottled up inside for years and years and years… An inquiry caged for eons in the back of his brain, finally able to break through rusted bars. "...would you have brought them with you, if you could…?"

Lilith smiled. Stroked the not-boy's shuddering shoulders, tangling his straightened hair with her nestling. "Yes, I would have," she then assured, without any hint of irony, any ridicule or judgment. A mother to the core, she instead continued to lavish him with consoling caresses— much like his own mum used to, back when he was sick or scared or sad. The sudden deluge of archaic emotions, of sepia-hued memories, burned like funeral pyres in the base of the devil's gut, in the backs of his eyes… When Ciel blinked his hooded eyes, he was only vaguely surprised to feel a small pearl of wetness slip down the bridge of his nose, dripping to dew on the round of the other's breasts. "I most definitely would have, had I power over their souls. But they are not in my jurisdiction."

Not in her…

A gummy gulp; a thick swallow. With little regard for his stoic reputation, Ciel felt his fingers clench around clumps of Lilith's slinky gown, giving it an emphatic tug: despairing, demanding… childlike, even. Appropriate, considering it was his inner child that was acting out, begging to hear the answer that he'd never thought he'd get to know. "Then they…?"

He didn't need to finish the question. And thank goodness for that; Ciel wasn't even sure he'd have been able to. With each passing instant, his reedy voice was growing smaller and smaller— and in the process, was becoming harder and harder to find. But Lilith, like her son, knew everything that the fledgling could ever wish to know… She nodded, pulling away enough to offer a serene smile. "Unfortunately, the angels are rather stingy when it comes to who is and isn't allowed to leave Heaven, even for short periods," the demonical queen explicated, in the same professional tone of anyone discussing the tedious realities of business. "There is a great deal of paperwork involved that we devils— as is our prerogative—tend to, shall we say, conveniently forget, when it is in our best interest. That said…" Smoothing back Ciel's rumpled bangs, Lilith dipped forward to brush a blithe kiss to her new darling's forehead, cupping his chin as he gazed up at her with eyes as round and wet as a forlorn ten-year-old's. "Wherever they are up there, I _know _that they are proud of you, love. Proud, and so, so happy…" With a charmed giggle, Lilith again retreated a few inches—bopping the blushing, befuddled once-boy on the tip of his button nose. "After all," she reminded, mellifluous, "now that you have found eternal contentment, Ciel, they can, as well."

…the revelation nearly stole the strength from his legs.

His parents… their souls… their _consciousness_… peace. It was a realization nearly as powerful as an epiphany, and (in that moment) just as meaningful. Profound. Enough so, in fact, for Ciel to forgive himself the soft, snotty sniffle that echoed through the bedroom in its wake, puerile in its vulnerability. Later, he'd claim it was a cough. But for now… Rubbing the back of his quivering hand across his face (for no, he _still _refused to acknowledge the tears), the young devil sucked down a few shallow breaths, then fashioned his mouth into a wavering smirk.

"Do you two have aphrodisiac for saliva, or something…?" he subsequently grumbled, though the complaint was less a scathing gibe and more of a shy taunt. Playful, in a way, as he tried to dry his moist, mantled face. But though the wetness could easily be removed, the color couldn't; the once-earl continued to grouse as Lilith snickered and pinched the apple of his cheeks, seemingly trying to further darken their hue. Her efforts and laughter increased tenfold when Ciel began to struggle against her ministrations, batting at her hands and wriggling from her hold. "Stop it! Honestly! It's obscene."

"Well, now you know where Sebastian gets his perversions from," Lilith chuckled, forcibly holding Ciel's head still enough to plant a second (sloppier) kiss upon his temple. The little demon squeaked, squirmed, and immediately attempted to scrub away the spit before it had a chance to… er, take effect. He refused to ruin the ironed perfection of his slacks. "And I can hardly blame him— your indignation is simply adorable. Mallie-bird certainly has more restraint than I gave him credit for… Oh, just look at you blush, you precious creature!" With a squeal of her own, the demon queen gave her son's intended one more squeeze—effectively smothering him with her sizable bosom (funny, Ciel hadn't thought of Ran Mao for decades)— only to immediately tear herself away with an airless gasp and a snap of lithe fingers. Well, the snap was hers, at least; the gasp was mostly his. And it was more of a wheeze, to be honest. "Speaking of Mallie-bird, I nearly forgot!"

With that—and with a lack of ceremony boarding on nonchalant brazenness—, Lilith proceeded to casually stuffed her fist down the front of strapless gown, fingers happily rifling around in the valley between her breasts.

...right then.

Busy though she was with her searching, the demonic sovereign nevertheless took the time to bequeath upon her son-in-law a casual grin, as if randomly deciding to groping one's unmentionables was perfectly acceptable behavior in polite society. (…then again, considering his earlier escapades in the closet, perhaps Ciel hadn't the right to judge.) For a moment, the once-earl couldn't decide which left him feeling more disconcerted: Lilith's actions, or how little they truly surprised him. Eventually, he decided upon the latter.

"Huh. I'd have hardly thought that _you_ would need to stuff," the not-child dryly commented, arching a single slim eyebrow over his red-rimmed eyes. While speaking, he dispassionately watched the she-devil dig— as fervently determined as if hunting for lost gold. "But I suppose that vanity _is_ one of our entitlements."

Lilith, undeterred by the goad, responded to it with an elegant jeer, gaze narrowing in humored irritation. "That's a smart mouth you've got, there, love," she retorted equably, the very picture of indifference, "But if you were a smart _boy_, you'd know to keep an eye on it. Ah~ there we are." With a flick and a flourish, she retracted clenched fingers; from within those pallid confines peeped three glossy feathers. Sleek and shiny, their bases fluffy with down, the ebony plumes shone with an ethereal darkness through the room… and Ciel recognized the aura immediately. On instinct alone, he reached out to touch them—only to have his grabby hands batted away by Lilith, clicking tongue catching on a tutting sound. "Ah ah," she scolded, even as her lengthy leer licked at her eyes, "these are not for you to play with. These are for your hair."

"My hair…?" That seemed rather… tribal. Brow furrowing in faint bewilderment, Ciel nevertheless allowed Lilith to physically wheel him around, forcing him to take a seat on the edge of the mattress. The bed groaned; his bustle sighed. In the silver of the mirror, the fledgling could see his own confusion reflected back upon himself, as well as Lilith's teeming zeal: scurrying around, she made a swift grab for a gilded brush and a length of ruby-colored yarn. Soon after collecting, she returned to the small devil's side, and was once again combing his locks into submission.

"Demons do not often engage in commitment ceremonies," the she-devil explained, skillful fingers weaving through hoary tufts of silken hair. Within a span of seconds, she had isolated his right forelock; she wasted no time in braiding the strip of red thread through those strands of silver-blue. "As you can imagine, such vows are often challenging for those in our line of work to respect, much less uphold. That said, however," Lilith persisted, deft digits working faster than Ciel could keep up with, "it _has _happened often enough over the eons for our people to develop a custom or two. Of which this is one." As she expounded on demonic history, Sebastian's feathers were artfully laced beneath the burgundy bands in his charge's bangs, falling to rest against his temple, cheek, and chin. The dark down tickled Ciel's flesh, even as it framed his inquisitive features. A tradition, was it?

"What's its purpose?" the demonling demanded, lifting his head to try and search out his companion's eyes. Lilith wasted no time in stopping him: placing a heavy hand atop his crown to forcibly still his movements. She had much work to do, yet; she couldn't have him fidgeting. "If you're going to bother with ritual, it must at least have a meaning, yes?"

Another smile— china-white teeth winked and glimmered in the diamond-sheen of the looking glass. "Of course it does," the queen assured, bending at the waist as her palm squeezed his shoulder. She seemed… very close, now. Ciel felt a shiver cascade down the length of his spine as her warm breath teased at his nape, just as her fingers teased at his new adornments. Her low laughter reverberated throughout the room, amplified by the shell of his ear; he leveled her his umpteenth glance of disapproval, but for the time being said nothing else. He rather wanted an answer to his question, first… "The cord," Lilith began, the camber of her talon catching on the curve of it, "symbolizes the red thread of fate, which binds destined souls to one another. It has twined around not only you— as suggested by its presence in your hair— but also the being to whom these feathers originally belonged. The plait shows how the two of you have been united by way of its magic… and by wearing the other's plumes, you both publically acknowledge your oneness." Giving the slender braid a gentle flick, Lilith hummed jubilantly and straightened once more, grinning down her nose at the awed devil beside her. "Do you understand, my dear?"

"…"

For a tentative spell, Ciel offered no response. His muscles had seized; his insides had solidified. It was only through a herculean show of effort that, a minute of dithering later, the young demon managed a simple nod. And that alone was impressive, really; what with the lump that had formed in his throat (_perhaps a_ _tumor_, he muse drolly, remembering a particular song), he could do or say little else. In the hollow of his lap, the once-child clenched his quaking fingers, trying vainly to suppress the flustered flush that was swiftly laying siege to his face. That was… a rather cheesy practice, wasn't it? Overly romantic. Maybe a bit tawdry, too. But for as asinine as it was, it was also… kind of beautiful, Ciel had to admit.

…this was _really happening_, wasn't it?

Shyly, the devil's dainty digits darted up to toy with the fringe of his decorated forelock, a silly little grin worming around on his thin lips. "…I understand," he finally breathed, coughing to clear his throat of all unwanted sentimentality. (It didn't help much.) In return, Lilith's sunny beam brightened.

"Wonderful."

"…huh? What're y— _ouch!_"

"Then you understand why I needed to do that," the perky queen sang, brandishing the three hairs that she had just ripped from the base of Ciel's tender skull. Clutching at his abused noggin, a foul curse banging on the backs of his teeth, the little demon shot his mother-in-law a spiteful glower as his stolen strands morphed in her grasp: ribs of pliable plastic unfurling like the petals of a flower as the simple hairs lost their Glamor, changing back into the plumage of crows. "We can't have your fiancé underdressed at the altar, after all."

**3:01 PM**

"You _forgot_ to buy an mp3 of The Wedding March?"

"I didn't _forget! _I just… don't remember crossing it off of my To Do List, that's all! Besides, weren't _you _the one who made today's playlist?"

Bitingly aware of every supernatural eye upon them, Ronald's expression twisted from one of barefaced exasperation to some strange mix of sardonic laughter and unreserved frustration. Really? _That _was her argument? Beside him, poised on the edge of a strip of red carpet, a pouting Grelle angrily brandished her bouquet— black petunias and diamond frost, to match the countless garlands strewn about the room—, and only just managed to stop herself from beating her underling over the head with it. He wasn't worth a bunch of ruined flowers, let alone the risk of getting sweaty.

"Well, weren't you?" she then pressed in a furious hiss, electric green eyes sparking behind the rims of her glasses. Surrounding the arguing reapers on all sides— squished together in neat rows like supernatural sardines— angels and demons sat patiently atop their metal folding chairs, watching this newest entertainment unfold. So long as something amusing was going on, they didn't particularly seem to care if the wedding itself was delayed. They were all pretty easy like that.

"Yeah, but I was never officially put in charge of music," Ronald defended in a swift whisper, as if keeping his voice down might somehow help matters. Not so much, unfortunately. It was a small room. And it was full of people with excellent hearing. "Besides, the only reason I made that playlist was to keep you from submitting everyone to that terrible music you've been suggesting all week!"

"Yeah. Good job on that," someone muttered sarcastically from the depths of the waiting throng.

"Oh, shut up, Leviathan," Ronald snapped in return, spinning to shoot the demon (fifth row, eighth seat in, still suckling on a flute of wine) a mirthless glare. He then reverted to using quiet murmurs, because that had clearly been working so well thus far. "Look," the reaper gritted, raking a hand through his rumpled locks and trying very hard to keep from snapping at his friend—she already looked half-way to tears—, "the fact of the matter is that we don't have the song. Fuck, we don't even have a laptop anymore— those cherubim stole it to watch cat videos on youtube, and I haven't seen it since."

Down the length of the scarlet carpet— separating the two groups by, perhaps, a few yards— a dapper-looking and deadpanned William grunted softly, in what must have been (for him) a show of riotous amusement. "Old acquaintances of yours, demon?" he drawled, casting the devil beside him a sidelong glance. Sebastian— who had yet to lower his hand from his throbbing temple, hiding his eyes as one might while watching a scary movie—, responded with a similar snort.

"W-well… We'll just have to postpone the wedding, then!" Grelle decreed with a wet-eyed sulk, stubbornly crossing her gloved arms over her chest. Upon her breast, a necklace of garnet chips trembled in the wake of repressed emotion; the shawl she'd looped and pinned so carefully about her shoulders and back threatened to fall loose. Soon, the whole of her draping gown had begun to shudder, heeled feet stamping in an exemplary example of immature obstinacy. "Everything needs to be perfect for them, and it _can't_ be perfect if we've forgotten something!" the reaper snapped with a snivel, one fist gripping her battered blossoms and the other clutching the folds of fabric that made up the base of her bodice. "We'll just have to try again after buying that song… There's no way we can precede without it! I refuse to compromise the integrity of Sebastian-darling's wedding!"

"Oh, for the love of—"

From across the congested room, still poised with Will before the television and book cases, an annoyed Sebastian (_finally_) decided that enough was enough. Giving his eyes a mighty roll, the demon proceeded to yank his cell phone from his pocket and snap it open with a _crack_; in the same fluid motion, his thumbs began flying across the keyboard he'd revealed. As if the brisk sound was some kind of warning shot, the entirety of the gathered mob turned collectively to face him— wings rustling and leather squeaking—, looking mutually baffled. "Sexting already?" one guest genially proposed, nudging the angel beside him meaningfully. "Maybe he has youtube on his phone," another offered, similarly amiable. (A gaggle of cherubim straightened in their seats, suddenly looking more interested.) "Or tetris!" a third tried. Too busy finding a solution to offer an answer, Sebastian himself said nothing; no sooner had the proposals begun to fly did the devil close his blackberry and give his foot a tap, waiting for something.

_Sha-la-la-la-la-la, music play! Do what the music say! You wanna kiss the gi—_

As a singular mass, the crowd spun 'round once again, risking both falling from their chairs and giving themselves whiplash in order to see what was happening behind them. Beyond the overstuffed living room (and the kitchen's ransacked hors d'oeuvre table), a muffled Disney song echoed jauntily, serenading the shadows. It tickled at a few hundred ears for a spell, only to be swiftly silenced by an identical _snap_ of slipping plastic. More keypounding ensued, equally speedy and skilled; half a minute later, Sebastian's phone began singing a tinny midi of the song that Grelle so longed to hear.

_Doo do doo doo~ Doo do doo doo~_

"Better?" Sebastian flatly queried, arching his brow as he regarded his blubbing best friend. The reaper in question— tears all but startled from her eyes by the demon's brusque curtness and ingenious compromise— mechanically nodded assent. Once the faint shock of his snippiness had faded, Grelle busied herself dabbing the base of her palm beneath her nose, subtly attempting to stem the liquid flow of maidenly despair. It was a gesture that Ronald noted with his usual perceptiveness.

"Need a tissue for your snot?"

The earnest inquiry was answered by an immediate bristling. Lowering her wrist, Grelle responded to this kindness by smacking her friend pointedly in the stomach. With the hand in question, of course. Ron's nose scrunched in disgust (and maybe a bit of pain), but he knew better than to whine about either. It would just start another fight, and no one fought on "perfect days." (Rather, so help them if they did.) "Right," he coughed instead, rubbing at his abused belly. "Can we do this thing, then?"

"Please?" seconded a familiar voice from the depths of the hall, deadpanned in his mounting malcontent. "I'm not getting any more married just standing here."

"An' I wanna chuck these!" Alois added eagerly, drawing the crowd's attention temporarily towards the dining room. The blonde—just in case anyone had forgotten who he was, or that he was there at all— waved exuberantly upon garnering everyone's notice, posing atop his bar stool like an extra from "Flashdance." At least Hannah had managed to convince him not to dress like one. "Been practicing with that plastic rose for ages. I'm totally ready to throw around the real deal! And Luka can't wait to dole out jewelry, right?"

Alois shot a cheerful beam to his left, where his little brother was fiddling with some pony figurines. Finny had dug them out to amuse the young demon when chasing the pets grew tiresome; since then, Luka had fully submersed himself in his little make-believe world—to the point where he didn't seem aware of the fact that he was being spoken to. Instead, he was caught in the act of decorating the toys' heads with the silver rings he'd sworn to protect. The sight made Sebastian cringe, reaching out as if to say something, but he was spared the bother of doing so by Hannah, who gently removed the make-shift circlets from Discord and Fluttershy's heads. A good thing, too; a moment later, Alois began swinging his basket of petals in quick circles, as if to mock gravity, and gravity decided to fight back by staking a claim on Fluttershy. As the pony tumbled from the countertop, Luka blinked and started, finally seeming to realize that a whole bunch of people were staring at him. "…huh?"

"That's a yes! Olé!" Alois translated, leaping to his feet with so much zest and zeal that one could almost literally see a trail of sparkles alight behind him. Actually, strike that "almost;" Hannah shook her head in mild exasperation as Claude lowered a handful of cracked party poppers, his expression comically sober amidst swirls of rainbow confetti.

"Those were for after the ceremony, Claude."

"Actually, they were for after we found Ciel Phantomhive and congratulated him on his impending marriage."

"And it will be 'impending' forever, at this rate!" griped the distant voice of Ciel, a sliver of his profile peaking out from around the edge of the corridor. "What are we waiting for? A heavenly edict?"

"I could give one, if need be," Raphael offered, half-standing as he lifted an obliging finger. A few other angels murmured approvingly at this, while the demons instead found themselves contemplating the unintended irony. Neither was of much help.

"I think it's more a lack of music, love. There's nothing with which to cue everyone up," Hannah explained, forever the calm and rational one, as she leaned over the countertop and spoke in the direction of the provisionally ostracized demon. To her right, still clumped together on the far end of the red carpet, Grelle and Ronald were forced to agree with awkward nods. The timing of their planned procession had been based on a melody that they no longer had access to; without it, they were as lost as actors who'd missed their entrance cues.

The back of Ciel's head met the wall with an audible thud of irritation. "Do I need to text Sebastian once more?" he demanded, the words terse with understandable annoyance. "Would you like to turn the radio on? Or perhaps you could just have our guests hum a little ditty for us? I honestly don't give a damn, anymore— just let me marry Sebastian!"

In the wake of this passionate outburst, a murmur of agreement rippled through those beings gathered, all of whom were growing a bit tired of sitting there for no reason. It didn't help that their rears were starting to hurt, either; collapsible seats weren't known for being incredibly comfortable. "Well, I'd vote against the radio—mostly commercials and sports reports, right now," Azazel advised helpfully, glancing at his watch. "Plus, I don't want to have the scores spoiled for me. I'm TiVo-ing the game as we speak." This confession was instantly augmented by a wave of audial empathy, in which others made noises that alluded to similar situations. One or two muttered gravely about what a sin such spoilers would be. Sebastian fought the urge to switch on the television and immediately ruin their day. It was an urge that Baalberith didn't bother battling.

"The Braves won."

A beat. The smug announcement hung suspended in the air for a strained spell… then the implications settled and were answered by a communal groan, interspersed with scattered cheers and exchanges of cash. Sebastian beat his forehead against his knuckles; William looked peeved on principle. A few crumpled napkins flew through the air, thrown in the general direction of the blind devil. Baalberith evaded each one, looking very pleased to have substantiated his reputation as a gigantic effing twat. As if to reward himself, he nibbled on a Jordan almond from his goodie bag.

"Now that _that's_ settled…!" Grelle said loudly, vainly attempting to re-establish order by frantically waving her arms. Why she thought measures that never succeeded to calm a disorderly gathering of human preteens would even _sort of_ work on an inebriated bunch of paranormal demigods was a mystery, but hey. At least she tried.

Unfortunately, 'trying' was no longer good enough for Ciel. "You all have three seconds before I kidnap Sebastian and we head to Las Vegas," the fledgling warned darkly, looking the very picture of seriousness. (Or, at least, he sounded like he did. They still couldn't see him fully, hidden as he was.) In the back of his brain, the not-child couldn't help but wonder why they hadn't just done that in the first place… Oh, yeah, something about wanting to celebrate with friends and family, using his own face. Huh. Those were rather stupid reasons, in retrospect.

"Well, then… if no one else objects, I might have an idea." With a graceful clatter of bangles on aluminum, an angel seated in the front row clamored to his sandaled feet, raising his voice so that all could hear. Gabriel, it seemed, was the creature in question, a smile on his face and his fingers twined around two strangely-shaped cases. Curiosity piqued, a number of others tipped dramatically forward, watching nosily as the first of these black boxes was set upon the flat of his chair. The second Gabriel offered to Azazel, who had been seated a few rows behind. "We intended to play together, anyway, did we not?" he reminded as he passed along the sheathed violin. "Why save for later fun that you could have right now?"

With that, the angel extracted his own instrument—a shimmering brass horn—and lifted it to his pursed lips, blowing the opening notes to…

Well, some song that Ciel could have sworn he'd heard before, if many years ago. Something… theatrical? Meaningful? Whatever it was, he could not immediately recognize it, though Azazel had no problems doing so. Within moments, the elder devil had discreetly managed to squeeze his way out of the throng, joining Gabriel near the windows at the front of the room. Even as he meandered, his bow danced across the strings of his fiddle; the oddly melancholy, oddly _familiar_ tune crescendoed briefly after a simple introduction, the notes and melodies growing more and more complicated as the tune progressed. For a few moments, everyone stood in a reverential silence, simply appreciating the music… But then someone finally made the connection that Ciel had been struggling for, and decided to broadcast his insight quite vocally.

"Aaa!" Finny cried aloud thirty seconds into the first verse, pointing dramatically at the playing pair. "I get it! 'On His Way!' Because the young master is on his way down the aisle!"

This explanation (which, apparently, quite a few others had needed) paved the way for a string of differing reactions: a few "oo"s, a couple of "ah"s; some merely groaned at the pun. But such reactions went largely ignored by the blonde, whose green eyes shone with even _more_ eagerness as another realization struck him: "Hey, I know this one!"

Unable to think of a better way to contribute to the wedding, the excitable ex-gardener bustled over to the flimsy electric keyboard that Sebastian kept hidden in the corner, set aside to pick and plunk at on the occasional rainy day. And while no, it hadn't rained for a week or so, it still seemed an appropriate time to turn it on; Finny—who had actually grown quite skilled in music over the span of two centuries— managed to ease his way into the harmony by the first interlude, and by the time the second verse began, he'd become integral to the descant.

"…well?" Chin upon its rest and violin propped upon his shoulder, Azazel leveled Grelle a prompting glance from across the living room. "We've got eternity, but let's not take _that_ long. Or would you rather we play Yackity Sax?"

"Oh…" Poised behind the piano—its plastic frame shuddering mightily under the passionate fingers of the blonde— Finny frowned a trifle, obviously concerned. "I don't know how to play that one…"

"Well then, what the hell are we waiting for? Let's do this thing!" With the boundless enthusiasm of a hyperactive antelope, Alois threw himself-head long down the makeshift aisle: bouncing, bounding, and skipping as if (once again) trying to show gravity who was boss. As he pranced, he scooped handfuls of marigolds from his wicker basket, tossing the golden heads high into the air. One or two caught in the ceiling fan and exploded; others landed in unfinished glasses of champagne with wet _plop_s. And yes, there were more than few "ow!"s from the observant crowd: towards the end, the demonling's throws became decidedly less "artful" and far more "violent." He giggled madly, as if the back of each bystander's head was worth a certain number of points…. Hitting a sneezing Baalberith earned him an even 60, as well as a smattering of grateful applause from the more vindictive guests. Before too long, his basket empty, Alois had successfully managed to migrate to the front of the room; upon securing his post beside William, he spun around, waved vigorously, and screamed out: "Claude! Claude, did you see? Hannah, did I do a good job?"

His pseudo-parents, barely more than 10 feet across the way, offered encouraging and congratulatory responses. Claude blew into a noisemaker he'd found. Alois beamed with the pride of one who had just accomplished a very important, very difficult task, like invent the polio vaccine. Or discover a way to keep Ronald off of the counter. "Your turn now, Luka!" the Trancy boy then yelled, gesturing for his younger sibling to join him on this end of the carpet. "Bear those rings like you've never born rings before!"

"…but I never _have_ born rings before," Luka reminded, sage in his literalness as his lashes flickered owlishly. As if to seek out her wisdom and guidance (as well as the rings, since they were still locked in her fist), Luka turned his hazel eyes upon Hannah, silently asking how to proceed. The she-devil offered a simple smile in answer, pressing the matching bands into his tiny palm before giving her child a gentle shove in the right direction. He stumbled; he frowned. He shrunk back a bit, suddenly and bitingly aware of the fact that he was once again on full display. But there was no turning back now, and the faster he got this over and done with, the faster there'd be cake. Mind preoccupied with the question of how one properly bore a ring (or, at least, how one bore it without accidentally copying someone else from history)— the young devil began to traipse warily down the length of the carpet, step by anxious step, clinging to the jewelry and to the promise of sweets. His head whipped to the left, then snapped to the right; he seemed half-afraid that one of the invitees would swoop down and scoop him up, like some sort of overly affectionate pterodactyl. (And from the sound of some of the females' giggles, these fears weren't entirely unfounded.) With a waffling façade of courage, Luka forged and tripped his way the first few yards… But upon growing level with the third row of chairs, he decided that'd been a job done well-enough. As the music swelled, the fledgling scampered: dashing to hide behind Will's legs and cower there like a frightened animal. The abruptness of this decision startled a number of those present, but no one more so than the reaper himself; not only was this brat a virtual stranger, but in general William wasn't the person kids ran to. Nevertheless, the pink-faced death god allowed the fledgling to grasp at his pants and burrow his face in the crook of his knee, hiding from the amused eyes of the masses.

"Here," the not-child eventually mumbled, words and fingertips trembling with nerves as he spoke from behind the shinigami's thigh. "I dunno why you gave 'em to me if you were just gonna have me give 'em back, but if you want 'em again, you can have 'em." With that, Luka lobbed the rings at Sebastian, recoiled a foot, then darted off to seek further comfort burrowed in the bell of Hannah's dress.

Right.

Well, he'd certainly done as tasked: he'd born the rings like no one had ever born them before. Sebastian, perhaps the only one _not _surprised by Luka's lackluster performance, plucked the bands from midair and held them tightly to his chest, mentally agreeing with Luka's assertions of ridiculousness. In fact, the devil had a whole barrage of barbed opinions he felt rather keen on sharing at the moment, all sorts of laments and irritations and questions as to why he was bothering to go through with this front in the first place—

But then Ciel— _finally!_— rounded the corner… and everything else in the entirety of the universe ceased to be, let alone matter.

"…oh…"

The music fell away. The crowd fell away. His impatience, crossness, and escalating vexation melted into a mire of molasses in the muddled pit of his belly: sweet and warm and ensnaring. A sticky web of emotion, bound around his soul. As anticipation turned the butler's insides into saccharine mush, he almost felt inebriated— drunk on a sugary sensation that nearly _overpowered_ him as he gazed down the path of the claret carpet and into the face of his handsome young master. Sensing Sebastian's awestruck stare, Ciel's rosy lips had coiled into a small, bashful smile… a small, bashful, _stunning_ smile that was exclusively for him. Radiant— the young devil was radiant, almost physically glowing: skin like porcelain, eyes like sapphires, and a hidden heart of gold… the only thing on Earth that the demon treasured, cherished.

Sebastian's chest constricted—his lungs emptied. His heart trembled like a newborn butterfly.

Ciel was so _beautiful_.

The little demon said nothing as he made his way down the aisle—every _inch _of him the elegant, poised, refined nobleman that he'd once been raised to be. Each step was measured, dainty and certain; he held his bouquet of otherworldly roses (black and white in color) with visible pride, the halo of their silvery nebulous adding an ethereal glimmer to his own features. And swathed as his charge was in that long-forgotten suit—once as detested as the transformation that had stolen his meal away— Sebastian couldn't help but reflect upon their volatile past … the good, and the bad, and how extremely thankful he was for absolutely _everything_. Every moment, minute, hour, day, week, month, year, decade, century, _God, please,_ he prayed— yes, prayed; for the first time in who knew how many millennia— _let there be ten thousand more_…

The young demon reached the edge of the runner just as the ragtag band's song faded into a hush, the memory of the final notes lingering in the air as audial ghosts. Without once turning away from his intended, Ciel gave his flowers to William and accepted his train from Grelle, who had been merrily bringing up the rear of the procession: flashing everyone they passed a watery, million-watt smile, already accentuated by smudges of mascara. A swishing of fabric, a clatter of heels, and the once-earl had swung himself around to face Sebastian— one dainty hand landing lightly atop his butler's in a move reminiscent of a ballroom dance. And as if it were the beginning of such a dance, Sebastian could not stop himself from lifting the back of that hand to his lips, dusting a reverential kiss against his tamer's pale knuckles. Some part of his mind registered (with a distant curiosity) that his little one's nails were not their usual shade… But he was too far-gone, too lost in breathless veneration, to wonder on that mystery right now.

"…well?" The word was a muted whisper, more mouthed than spoken. Sebastian glanced up at the gentle prompt, gazing into blue, blue eyes as soft as summer skies, their gem-bright depths warm with an affectionate fire. His gloved fingers gestured delicately to his hair, suit, bustle, subtly showing them off. "Was I worth waiting for?"

Sebastian barely spared the outfit a glance. "_Always_," he murmured in return, reaching out to capture that hand as well. With one last kiss, one last squeeze, the butler straightened to admire Ciel's demure blush— his own smile visibly widening when his intended finally recognized the feathers woven into his forelock. Much like the once-earl's human hair, Ciel's penna was of a smoky gray hue; the plumage matched the silvery adornments on Sebastian's suit, and the red thread complimented his shimmering cherry wood eyes. For an instant, Ciel looked tempted to reach out and touch the plumes, as if to make certain they were truly his own… But he knew that answer already, and in the end stilled himself with a pleased grin.

The happy love birds (no pun intended) would have gladly stood in that humbled silence with one another for eons, blissfully oblivious of the actions and reactions of the throng surrounding them. But that sounded rather boring to the others in attendance, to be honest. Especially since the alcohol was so far out of reach. It took a few minutes, but soon the younger creatures in the crowd had grown bored of sitting in a respectful silence; a faint buzzing began to bounce off of the walls, anxious and irked. The couple at the head of the room didn't pay the noise any heed, at first, but when someone (Leviathan) cried out "So is anyone gonna marrying you two, or…?" even _they_ were forced to pause and frown, blinking twice.

…who _was _marrying them, anyway? Grelle had never—

"Alright, I'm comin', I'm comin'~ Jest hold yer horses, heehee…"

Ah. That was probably why she'd never said anything.

Expressions flattening into something identically deadpanned, both Sebastian and Ciel glanced up in time to catch the Undertaker moseying out of Finny's closed bedroom, where he'd apparently been busy sprucing himself up. Those who knew him could spot the change in an instant: his usual outfit of knits and pleather had been made classy by the application of a clip-on bowtie. With a smile as wound as clock springs, the hoary-haired reaper glided to his proper place before the demons, allowing the Bible in his hands to fall heavily open. From the book's hollowed depths, he retrieved another bone-shaped cookie and giggled. "Hiya~" he affably greeted the men before him, flexing bejeweled fingers in a juvenile greeting. "You two ready to tie the knot?"

Ciel's response was a pokerfaced stare. On the one hand, the death god's selection as their pseudo-pastor made sense; it wasn't as if they'd have wanted a real priest to wed them, even if that had been a legitimate option. And the thought of anyone else in the room giving it a go (Asmodeus, Lilith, Ronald, Finny, God-forbid-Claude…) made the fledging feel both leery and dimly ill. But at the same time… well, c'mon.

"Hey now, what's that menacin' lil' look for, my lordship?" the reaper lilted, cocking his head as if he'd been offended. But his unwavering Cheshire sneer gave the joke away; chuckling as hard as he was, he could have easily choked on his last swallow of biscuit. Too bad he didn't. "If yer worried 'bout payin' me, don't. Can't remember the last time I've laughed so hard, fer so long. I dare say this even covers yer tab from so many years ago~"

"Oh. Thank goodness."

If Undertaker picked up on the palpable sarcasm oozing from the not-boy's droned retort, he didn't show it. Instead, he offered an amiable nod and spread his skeletal arms wide, as if welcoming all those gathered as bosom buddies. "As a reaper, whose power lies in life and death—in examining, judging, prolonging, and conjoining souls," the mortician loudly proclaimed, filling Ciel with the sneaking suspicion that he had prepared for this moment by studying Evangelical acts on the television, "should we not also have the ability to unify two beings in the bonds of unholy matrimony? Can I get an 'amen,' heeheehee~?"

"Amen!" the angels in the crowd responded exuberantly, some going so far as to throw their hands in the air and trill a brief Hallelujah chorus. The devils, on the other hand, vacillated over a few points of confusion, such as whether or not they were allowed to use that word anymore, or if the Undertaker had wanted them to tack on that bit of laughter, as well. In the end, a few of the braver souls muttered hesitant "amen"s (eyes darting back and forth to make sure none of their brethren had heard it), while others decided that adding to the maniacal laughter portion of the proclamation was good enough. "Heeheehee~!"

William, in turn, did what both Sebastian and Ciel privately wished they could. He face-palmed.

"Ah, there, you see…?" Regaining its usual crackly rasp, the Undertaker's voice lowered as he again turned to regard the devils before him, sharp canines flashing as he offered a heartening grin. "_They_ acknowledge my authority in these matters… You two should have no problems doing the same~"

Perhaps so, in theory. After all, these creatures gathered were their brethren, and thus the beings needed to legitimize their nuptial vows in a public sense. (It wasn't as if their marriage would likely be recognized by humans, after all.) But in reality… Ciel and Sebastian exchanged a succession of chary glances, arching slender eyebrows as if in silent communication. _I don't even know what this is, anymore_, the younger devil's features confessed, and his servant was forced to agree. But at the same time, had this ceremony ever been anything less than a bundle of chaos and a gigantic mess? And besides, it didn't really matter anyway, seeing as…

"…have you ever even conducted a wedding before, Undertaker?" Sebastian asked lightly, carefully, his voice the epitome of bland civility as his thumbs massaged the backs of Ciel's hands, a small gesture of comfort. The touch, ginger though it was, drained a good deal of the tension from the once-earl's shoulders… He sighed, and no longer bothered looking distressed. After all this time, all of these hitches and comical snags, what was one more bizarre setback? The fledgling set his jaw, preparing himself for the inevitable answer of—

"Nope," Undertaker chortled, and somehow everyone knew—behind the opaque veil of his bangs—that his vibrant eyes were alive with mirth and delight. Atop his favorite counter in the ransacked kitchen, Ronald succumbed to the urge to face-palm, as well. "But I've watched _Princess Bride _at least two dozen times… and a whooooole bunch of other romantic comedies. You needn't worry about a thing, heehee~"

Somehow, that made it impossible to do anything _but _worry.

"…well…" Torn between evident exasperation and the realization that things were going to get no less ridiculous from here-on-out, Sebastian wavered— concerned stare darting towards his beloved even as his face remained trained on the death god. But as his father liked to say, "well" was a deep subject; he wasn't quite sure where to go from there. Ciel had a few suggestions at-the-ready, though.

"There's always Las Vegas," the not-boy muttered under his breath, eyes hooded in sardonic seriousness. A sensible suggestion; whether or not his master was kidding (it was occasionally difficult to tell), the butler considered his proposition. True, it was out and about amongst the judgmental mortals, but hey— they could always claim that Ciel was some sort of midget, if anyone was sober enough to ask about his looks. "Or we could just go back to the amusement park bathroom."

_That_, at least, was likely a joke. Reeled back from his musings, Sebastian offered his frustrated fiancé a tender smile, squeezing their twined fingers. "We'll do as you wish," he gently avowed… nudging his shoulder a bit towards the window, in case Ciel chose the Vegas option. They'd need a quick escape, if that was the case.

Noticing this oh-so-subtle signal, Ciel's eyes darted, swift and contemplative, towards what could very easily become a makeshift exit, if they were so inclined. And there was some degree of temptation, there, to take the $325-replacement way out… But— his eyes slid again, gaze brushing over the faces of their guests, their friends… Grelle… "…it'd take a while to get to either of those places," the demonling decided with another heavy exhalation, features set with the same grim determination as one about to suffer a root canal. And in all likelihood, this ceremony was going to prove to as painful as such… but wasn't that what celebrating with family was all about? It was an agonizing torture that, in the end, proved worth enduring, in some capacity. "Let's just do it here."

"Heeheehee… Most excellent~" At the sound of the snicker—so close to their faces— both Sebastian and Ciel stiffened, straightened, seemingly startled. Oh yeah, there was a grim reaper looming crazily over them at present, wasn't there? In the back of his mind, Ciel gave the Vegas option one more moment of deep consideration, shuddering as the Undertaker leered: talons tapping soundlessly against the wall of his ivory teeth. "Then shall we get this show on the road~? Ahem…!" With his usual fervor, the death god leapt up upon the coffee table, which had been moved behind the wedding party to make room for folding chairs. His thick rubber soles left black skid-marks on the glass; his heavy footfalls made the entire contraption screech and shudder. But if one could ignore Sebastian's squawk of displeasure (which most found very easy to do), it made for an excellent improvised pulpit. With a chortled cough to clear his throat, the mortician again raised his arms and preached: "Mawage is wot bwings us togeder tooday. Mawage, that bwessed awangment, that dweam wifin a dweam... And wuv, tru wuv, will fowow you foweva~!"

Okay, no.

"I thought you promised not to steal your sermon from that movie!" Grelle groused, lashing out to kick at the base of the coffee table with the tip of a red high heel. (As the glass and reaper rattled, Sebastian couldn't help but wince. What was it with the death gods and destroying his furniture—?) "I gave you very few guidelines, but I distinctly remember 'no plagiarizing' being one of them!"

"Eeeh~?" Bending bony knees as if to brace himself against the redhead's assault, the Undertaker's homily broke off with a guffaw and a grin. Already in a low crouch, he poked his shaggy head through the gap between Sebastian and Ciel's bodies, turning his face (and presumably his eyes) towards the grimacing Grelle. "Would you rather I quoted the Bible, instead…?" he wondered aloud, giggles fizzing just-beneath the polite veneer of his drawl.

Feeling vaguely uncomfortable—and understandably so, what with the Undertaker's twisted mouth unnervingly close to his stomach— Ciel allowed his face and voice to drop low, dully regarding the one who had so violated his personal space. (Though at least he hadn't started violating anything else. Small miracles, and all that…) "Please don't."

"Alrighty then~" Retracting his head like some sort of tropical turtle—a retreat assisted by a pointed shove from a displeased Sebastian— Undertaker pulled himself upright with a clap and a rub of his hands, as if finally ready to take things seriously. "As if" being the key phrase, there. This was Undertaker, after all… he never took _anything _seriously. "I'll jus' take the liberty o' skipin' over all o' that religious crap, then, shall I?" he lightly posed, before turning his creeping leer upon Gabriel and offering a cordial nod. "No offence, o'course…"

"Oh, none taken," Gabriel returned sunnily, waving a prompting hand. "Please, continue."

That seemed as much a blessing from Heaven as anyone could ever hope for on their wedding day; how ironic that such a miracle should be wasted upon demons. The thought had the reaper gagging on his umpteenth snicker as he returned his attention to the pair before him, their hands knotted and their eyes locked. What a disgustingly romantic picture they made… "Let's get on with it, shall we, hmm~?" Undertaker thus cooed, as if this _hadn't_ been the couple's desire from the start. Ebony talon dissecting the squirming white worm of his lips, the death god posed in a sweet rasp: "Do you, Sebastian Michaelis, take this here little lordling t' be yer not-really-lawfully-but-what-the-heck wedded husband?"

The devil didn't miss a beat. "I do," he murmured, and with a gentle tug removed one of Ciel's decorative half-gloves. A moment of soundless worship rang in its wake; Sebastian clutched desperately to that precious hand, the hand that had saved him time and time again. Touched his heart as much as his body; lead him from the lonely abyss of solitude; rescued him from the sorrow of an eternity spent on his own. With a silent swallow that tasted of cloying emotions, Sebastian tenderly slipped the smaller of the silver bands onto his master's delicate finger, savoring every poignant second of the significant act. The smooth slide of the ring— teasing against pale flesh— sent a shivering tickle of wonderment from the curve of Ciel's knuckle to the pit of his belly, turning his cheeks a sentimental shade of scarlet. For a moment, blue eyes followed the predicted path of the glistening band (inevitable; destined, really—almost like a metaphor), then flicked back up to meet ruddy irises of velvet vermillion, warm and bright as embers. "Of course I do."

Ciel smiled. There was a brief pause for the Undertaker to grunt a laugh, and for Grelle to fish a handkerchief from the depths of her sequined clutch-purse. Somewhere in the conjubilant crowd, Lilith was doing the same… Only she'd kept her Kleenex, er, elsewhere.

"And do you, Ciel Phantomhive," Undertaker eventually continued, turning his skull-like smile upon the demonling in question, "take yer ol' butler t' be yer number one squeeze in this life an' the next?" A sneer, a snort; the reaper seemed awfully proud of his word choice. Not even the writers of _Princess Bride_ could hope to be so eloquent. He should copyright this shit when he was done. But for now…

"I do," Ciel agreed mellifluously, reverently, ignoring the way the reaper beside him had erupted into a geyser of poorly-suppressed chortles, flailing like some sort of deranged muppet. Instead, the not-boy gladly focused his attention on Sebastian's wedding band, handed to him with such palpable affection it was almost enough to make the ring feel physically heavier. One hand gingerly supporting the devil's cocked wrist, the other began to pluck at the ends of Sebastian's cotton gloves: finger by finger, leisurely loosening its hold. With only a sigh of resistance, the second skin was shucked and shed; a tattoo of rotted epidermal shone black beneath the overhead lights. Fingers whiter than purest porcelain poised the burnished loop before its new home… then suddenly paused. Wavered— as if waiting. But for what, that was the question—encouragement? _Dis_couragement? For the dream to end and them both to wake up? The very edge of his bottom lip caught between his teeth, Ciel chanced a brief glance upwards, nerves apparent in the glitter of his gaze… but he found nothing but patient anticipation in Sebastian's composed countenance, confident and adoring. It was more than enough to calm the dregs of anxiety.

"I do," Ciel said again, and without hesitating this time, slid the ring deftly into place.

His servant's subsequent shiver of delight—the sight of mismatched hands made a set by silver rings— had the fledgling's heart throbbing and aching with so much happiness, he was half-afraid it might burst in his breast. Literally. And wouldn't the macabre mortician enjoy _that _dramatic finale_…_

As if waiting for just such an explosion to occur (because c'mon, how amusing would _that _be?), the Undertaker glanced from demon to demon, head tipping back and forth like some sort of demented owl's. When no one spoke (or combusted), he shrugged in vague disappointment and declared: "Then by the power invest'd in me by… well, Grelle, mainly—" A titter of laughter from the supernatural throng; Grelle herself was too busy snotting into a tissue to comment or correct— "I pronounced ya married. Fin'ly. Since neither o' you wanted to be th' bride, I guess ya can jus' kiss each other."

Like they ever needed to be told twice.

Already in the process of leaning low (swiftly snatching their discarded gloves from their place on the floor), Sebastian wasted no time in using this downward momentum in a kiss's favor. Bending at the waist, fingers curling loosely around Ciel's thin shoulders, the devil's serene smile was soon pressed firmly against his beloved's warm…

…cheek.

_Cheek?_

Looking mildly taken aback (wouldn't a kiss on the lips have been more appropriate? Even _inhibited_ couples allowed themselves that much under these circumstances), Ciel frowned faintly, brow crumpling in discernible disappointment. He just… the cheek? That was like… how one would greet a crush. Or greet _anyone _in Europe. It was just a step away from a kiss on the forehead, which was the epitome of paternal displays of affection. Wasn't one's first kiss as a married couple supposed to convey far more love? Far more passion? Far more …oh Lord, he was starting to sound like Grelle, wasn't he?

Features hidden from their guests by the round of Sebastian's dipped head, the little demon nevertheless accepted the modest embrace without a show of fuss, surrendering simply to a dumbfounded blink. Well… maybe Sebastian would make up for this later. After everything else that had gone wrong today, Ciel supposed that he should just be thankful they'd managed to marry at all. For a while there, even _that_ had seemed too much to expect. So when his fiancé— no, husband— retreated an inch, his loving stare enveloping his master like the softest, warmest of quilts, the once earl offered a tiny grin in return, saying nothing. He couldn't ask right now. Not when Sebastian looked so very happy. Not when there were so many around to overhear his discontent. Not when—

"_Fuck yeah! Time for cake!_" the shrill voice of Luka shrieked, as boisterous as if he was already high on sugar. Or possibly cocaine. Excited squeak ricocheting through the linoleum kitchen, the not-child yanked himself from Hannah's cosseting embrace and stampeded over to the dining room table, scrambling atop a chair as if he was planning to throw himself, swan-style, into the tiered pastry upon it.

Not when…

"Heeeey, Ciel!" Still bouncing and bounding as if springs had been permanently affixed to his heels, Alois propelled himself towards his contemplative comrade with as much power as a freight train. With a final kiss to his master's forehead (_oh, perfect, _that_ really helped_, Ciel internally drawled), Sebastian deftly sidestepped the oncoming assault, for once allowing someone else to wrap loving arms around his tamer. He must be in a very good mood indeed. "Ciel, I was rifling through your new wedding gifts during the boring parts of the ceremony (so, you know, all of it), and I found some fabulous sex toys! Even a gold-plated prostate massager— damn, you guys have some rich friends! Wanna check 'em out with me?"

Not when Ciel should be thrilled. Because he should be. About more than expensive sex toys. But still…

Lips pursed and squirming in the wake of a gnawing puzzlement, Ciel watched as his butler-turned-husband rolled his eyes, grinned brightly, and spun spryly away— reportedly off to steal his beloved a slice of cake before Luka had a chance to slobber over the lot of it. Alois continued to cling to his neck as if a gaudy choker; Grelle and Lilith, sobbing like the mothers they were, had collapsed against the other's heaving bosom and where wailing like banshees; Finny, Azazel, and Gabriel struck up another familiar tune that Ciel couldn't quite remember the name of, but could swear had something to do with hallucinations. And all the while, the young devil couldn't help but think…

_This all seems rather anticlimactic, doesn't it? _

**7:51 PM**

Anticlimactic or not, the ceremony was over… and those gathered were all more than happy to bid it goodbye, and good riddance. After all, weddings were really only excuses to party, weren't they? And, much akin to any other party, the cake had been out for approximately 86 seconds before someone (Azazel, in this case) concluded that food should enrich more than just one's body. It should also enrich the carpet, the ceiling, the walls… the experience of merrymaking in general. There was, he claimed, just not enough pandemonium yet to be considered a true shindig; the best remedy for this was a food fight. When this arguably juvenile conclusion elicited groans of distaste from creatures both holy and damned, the demon pouted, obstinately smeared streaks of frosting beneath his eyes, and immediately organized a demonic squadron to attack all those who had jeered at his suggested version of fun. ("We're wasting food that could be used to feed starving orphans in Africa!" the devil Verrine pointed out as they rounded the troops, ignoring a whining Beelzebub as he tried to snatch away his plate of 'weaponry.' "So we can mark this on our tally sheets, right?") In the end, the makeshift war played out like any other: there were no winners, only losers. A whole roomful of messy, messy losers. After thirty minutes of enduring flying pastry missiles and a "suicide brigade" that doled out buttercream-coated hugs, half the kitchen and a third of the guests were covered in dessert toppings.

Eventually, it was collectively decided that something was needed to wash the sugar down with. The beverage of choice was unsurprising, to say the least; more alcohol had soon been called for, in the sort of vivacious (and glass-shattering) manner that one might expect from Norse Vikings. (Though perhaps in this case the broken dishes were mostly an accident; current company was rowdy, no doubt, but not intentionally rude.) This was all much to the chagrin of Will, who—poor thing— had been charged by his wife to keep an eye on that particular section of the table… which was rather like being asked to tend to a pot addict's marijuana farm while said addict and their friends were loitering nearby.

"Taking into account that a good number of you were personally acquainted with him," the reaper grumbled as he hefted another three caskets of liquor into the overcrowded kitchen, ignoring the raucously appreciative applause of the demons and angels gathered there, "I wouldn't think that I'd have to point out that I am not Jesus. When this is gone, it's gone; there's no 'water into wine' about it."

"Oh, you needn't worry." Clapping Will's shoulder in a soothing sort of way, Asmodeus flashed the red-faced death god (er, red-faced from physical exhaustion. Right) a debonair smile. "We wouldn't dream of drinking you out of house and home. Not without giving you anything in exchange…" With a sly little smirk and a magnificent flourish, Sebastian's father pulled a glass bottle of his own from… well, no one asked from where. Full of a pale, frothing liquid that fizzled most deviously, the glimpsed label christened the ale "Catnip Tequila." Brow dubiously arched, Will couldn't help but think that it'd be more appropriate to call the beverage "Liquid GHB," what with the glazed, lusty looks on the faces of those who helped themselves to a swig. But then again, they were all standing rather close to the king of the second circle, right now. Perhaps that was it.

Though he rather doubted it.

In any event, another few hours of drinking found everyone present much more at ease with themselves and those around them… in all senses of the word, if the number of closed closet and bedroom doors was anything to go by. Even those who'd abstained from inebriation by spirits had since lost themselves to other entertainments and the virulent aftereffects of sugar. The karaoke machine was back on, with DDR and Mario Party cued up for once the seraphim lost their voices; a number of demons had rediscovered the discarded My Little Pony figurines and were playing with them on the couch. After much egging, Ciel had thrown his bouquet into the remainder of the crowd, and had watched in mild amusement as three dozen frosting-faced entities fought and scrambled for the floral prize, feathers flying and horns butting. After a (nearly) bloodless battle royale, an archangel named Sabrael finally lifted his flower-filled fist in victory, looking incredibly pleased with himself… despite the fact that the roses in question had become little more than a mass of squashed petals and a collection of broken stems. Cradling arms slightly more bruised and gauzy robes a fraction more rumpled than they had been five minutes before, Sabrael was nevertheless bright-eyed in his enthusiasm as he turned to an equally battered Leviathan and asked if he'd seen Uriel, lately. The eager inquiry soon became a glower and a grumble, however, when a nearby Baalberith cackled, proclaiming that the silly superstition had been "wrong" this time.

Sabrael opened his mouth to… um, "protest," might be the courteous way of phrasing it—as did a number of others who'd grown sick of the omnipotent one's interminable trolling. But just as he spat the first of his venomous retort—

"Baalberith, I cordially invite you to kiss my holy a—"

—Ronald finally succeeded in his self-appointed quest. After a fruitless hour of hunting for his lost laptop, hoping he might be able to drown out the ruckus with some… well, noisier, slightly-more-melodic ruckus— he had instead turned his attention to the kitchen's CD player, which had been one of the first casualties of the earlier food fight. It had taken the better part of forty-five minutes, but he eventually managed to cleanse the abused electronic of stickiness and crumbs, as well as peel away the sugar-roses that had essentially super-glued the lid shut. Twisting the volume knob so far to the right that he almost snapped it clean off, the reaper crossed his fingers and smashed his fist against the "play" button, hoping against hope that whatever CD was in the tray was slightly more appropriate for a wedding ceremony than Yackity Sax. Because yeah, Azazel and Gabriel really did know how to play that one.

And for once, seeing as it was a special occasion and all, Lady Luck decided to show the Michaelis household some small degree of pity. Thus, Sabrael's cussing was soon tastefully censored by the audial explosion that was the opening chords of Alex Goot's "Pretty Eyes," which—would wonders never cease?—actually seemed a good song for the newly married couple, in retrospect. Good enough, at least, for Sebastian to turn to his partner, offer a hand, and flash a suave smile.

"As I believe I am entitled to at least one… " the demonic butler purred, as if a living photograph of that distant day— poised before the antique desk of a flustered and pouting earl, "May I have this dance, my lord?"

A pause. Some laughed; others nudged nearby spectators and shared in a smirk. For a moment—rather, for the sake of this little reenactment— Ciel considered being petulant: refusing the invitation with a scoff and a huff before trying to edge away. But that was a game for another time, another place. (Another time and place when Grelle wasn't around, more specifically: Ciel was half-afraid that she was going to run over and physically attempt to shove them together, at this rate.) In lieu of his usual brand of sulkiness, then, the young devil responded to his beloved by way of a demure grin, lightly setting his fingers upon the palm of the other… before immediately (and intentionally) stamping down on his demon's toes, posing himself atop them. Like a little child, grinning mischievously, the not-boy then clung to his husband and gave an imperial nod. If Sebastian wanted to dance with him, he'd have to do all of the work—Ciel sure as hell wasn't going to embarrass himself in front of these people.

More laughter, more nudging; the supernatural throng cooed and giggled as the newly wedded couple twirled out onto the makeshift dance floor—some unmarked space between the foyer, kitchen, and living room. The carpet had been inadvertently decorated with scatterings of black and white petals, which added delightfully to the ambiance; those in the vicinity moved gracefully aside as their hosts breezed past, for once content to leave a perfect moment alone. Someone near the front door (Lilith, likely), flicked the proper switch to dim the lights, and for the briefest moment in time, the insanity of this impromptu ceremony faded into something… magical.

A twist, a turn, a lift; Ciel soon found himself dancing by his own volition, but he was so busy blushing and beaming and holding to the equally contented Sebastian, he neither noticed or thought to complain. Nor did he bother taking heed of the others who soon drifted out onto the floor—polkaing, tangoing, fox-trotting and even breakdancing to the later cover tracks on the CD. "Dynamite," "2012," "Hold it Against Me," and "ET"… Perhaps not the best songs to waltz to, but even still, those gathered continued to boogie down to the best (or worst) of their abilities. (Raphael, for example, only seemed to know the Macarena. And Asmodeus proved to be rather fond of "The Chicken Dance.") Claude tap-danced in the corner; Alois performed some strange rendition of the Spanish Bull Fighting dance; Grelle consented to sway sensually back and forth with her rhythmically challenged husband, and laughed every time he smacked her wandering hands away from his rear.

But in Sebastian's eyes, as in Ciel's eyes, there was no one else in the world.

"_'Cause every time we touch, I get this feeling. Every time we kiss, I swear I could fly,_" crooned the newest song on the CD, and the once-earl snorted a bit at the irony as he was delicately spun beneath a lifted arm. The elder devil chuckled softly as well, not missing the joke; as he drew Ciel safely to his chest once more, he leaned low and murmured sweetly into his charge's pierced ear:

"If you wished, we could always fly away, baby bird… I only thought you might be having fun."

The hot breath scuttled down the not-boy's spine like a set of spidery fingers: meandering to massage and caress the inward dip at the base of his back. Hip to hip, torso to torso, Ciel's husky chuckle mingled with the expelled air and sexual tension that lingered lovingly betwixt their bodies, tickling the jut of Sebastian's collarbone. "I would much prefer to be having fun with you _exclusively_, right now."

"Oh…? Is that an order?" The former servant of Phantomhive teased, his playful goad ending in a chortle as he pressed another kiss to his tamer's temple. And for a moment, the little demon was tempted to turn it into one— perhaps demand a proper kiss while he was at it, as well: one which employed tongue and teeth and _effort_. But even as he opened his mouth to respond, Ciel suddenly… realized something. Rather, his eyes finally strayed from Sebastian's handsome face long enough to notice where they were, and where they were not. When their dreamy dance had begun, they'd been smack in the middle of a gaggle of deity, surrounded on all sides by angels doing the disco and devils performing the rumba. Now they were now more closely associated with the walls and closet door, bodies half-masked by the shadows of the entryway. The pace of their rhythmic retreat had been so gradual, so natural, that their escape had yet to be noticed by anyone… Not even Grelle, who'd since forced Will into a rather exuberant salsa.

"Why Sebastian," Ciel simpered, dropping his voice all the more— lest somebody hear his laughing whisper over the blasting refrain of the remake. "You sly devil."

Sebastian, in turn, offered a mischievous leer. "Have I ever been anything but?"

He then opened the door on silent hinges and bowed his young master out.

**8:43 PM**

At first, Ciel didn't give much thought as to where they were going. It didn't really matter, as far as he was concerned; the amusement park, Las Vegas, the moon. As long as they were together (cliché as it was), the young devil couldn't be bothered to give a damn. So once they'd made their clandestine getaway and Sebastian laced their hands, tugging his little lover pointedly through the pallid halls of the complex, Ciel made no protest. Neither did he resist, or seem particularly surprised, when his eager husband urged him to enter the cement stairwell— half-pulling, half-coaxing the fledgling to climb flight after flight of cracked and dusty steps. Sebastian's visibly mounting enthusiasm was a touch out of character, perhaps, but considering the occasion, the once-child didn't waste much time analyzing it. Rather, he cheerfully did as he was told, assuming the plan was to take off from some loftier post.

Then again, maybe not.

Bemused and startled, Ciel glanced down at the hand splayed purposefully across his chest, disconcerted by the faint pressure that was preventing him from passing through the door to the roof. That was clearly where they were headed; there was nothing else around and nowhere else to go. So what was the big deal? Stumped, the young demon blinked puzzled eyes up at his butler, wordlessly asking what the hell he was playing it. "Sebastian…?"

Sebastian, his winding smile markedly more mysterious, shook his head in a patient sort of way. "Not yet," he purred, palm and fingers rubbing soothing circle's over Ciel's skipping heart. "Not just yet… I need a minute or two to prepare. Is that alright?" Hand still pressed possessively against his beloved, the devil dipped down to nip a final kiss against his cheek. Temple to temple, pulses synchronizing, the elder demon paused then, waiting for a possible display of dissent… but the once-earl could hardly object when he had no idea what was going on. In the wake of this subsequent silence, Sebastian carefully pulled away—gingerly, gradually, as if to make absolutely certain that the flummoxed demon didn't dash as soon as he was set free. And no, he didn't; Ciel was far too bewildered to do anything more than watch his excited butler in a blatant show of bemusement.

"When you hear music, you may enter, alright?" Sebastian prompted, slipping backwards through the conspicuously branded 'emergency exit.' Vigilant in his quest to keep from spoiling whatever surprise lay beyond, the butler squeezed himself through the smallest crack he could manage—his eyes never straying from Ciel's mystified countenance. When only his head remained visible through the gap between door and frame, the demon's toothy grin became as earnest and excited as a little boy's on Christmas—confident in the promise of good things to come. "It'll be but a moment~" Sebastian swore, and then—though seemingly loathe to do so—broke their locked gaze and vanished with the sound of a metallic _thud_.

"…um…" Not entirely sure how to react or respond, Ciel offered a deferred nod of agreement… not that anyone was around to see or comment on it. Which was a good thing, really, for if there had they would have also paid witness to the fledgling's succeeding moments of dull-faced stupidity, bamboozled by his temporary abandonment atop the landing. It took a few seconds, but eventually Ciel's indignation caught up with his brain; the tiny devil scowled when he remembered that he should maybe try emoting something. After a bit of consideration, he ultimately decided upon "desperate curiosity," and— not particularly concerned about whether or not it was cheating—dared to strain his hearing just a tad… tip-toe up to press his ear against the cold aluminum barrier, listening for any stray sound that he might be able to translate into meaning. Immature? Maybe. But dammit, he had a right to know; he'd only just begun to get over the whole kiss-on-the-cheek shtick, and the general chaos of their zany ceremony. And now Sebastian was intentionally adding to the reckless insanity? That wasn't fai—

"…—?"

Music. An orchestral melody, first denoted by the reverent humming of strings: calm and unrushed. The flourish of a harp; a plangent lilt of harmonious horns—the sounds swelling and sweeping as each note resonated through the metal of the door. But just as the instruments neared a crescendo, there fell a swift silence: a breath in which a silvery flute sang a nostalgic solo, establishing the piece's haunting refrain. And for the third time that day, Ciel realized that the ballad he was hearing was a familiar one— one that he knew… Unlike those previous instances, however, the once-child recognized _this_descant in an instant. With a sardonic snort, the not-boy gave the heavy handgrip a mighty shove, rolling his eyes as he affectionately droned—

"Did you _really _choose music fr—?"

But the sarcastic taunt withered and died on the tip of Ciel's tongue, jaw and eyes falling open as the squeaking door swung shut.

The little one had yet to see the realms Above. Even now, as an immortal, he doubted he'd ever have the chance… but it hardly mattered, no, not anymore, because nothing would ever be able to match the beauty of this rooftop. Thrust nine stories into the rosy blush of dusk, the dome of the sky had become a private pantheon— stars of ethereal mercury twinkling to life as the panoramic cityscape acted in kind, distant buildings (like crystalline, straining fingers) glinting white against the gradient hues of heaven. Though their perch was not nearly as extravagant as the glass temples beyond, the rust-red brick of the ivy-swathed ledge was far more striking, in the fledgling's mind— particularly after having been so lavishly decorated. Rows upon rows of erected tapers, half-melted and molded together into scarlet sprays, illuminated the breadth of the compound; the warm crimson of their beading wax complimented the flicker of each firefly flame… the color of Ciel's train, and flush, and the ruby-hued carpet that had been unfurled beneath his feet—a forged path through a fascicle field of fragile flowers. The posy of charmed roses that Grelle had earlier provided _had_ come as something of a surprise; when had she the time to visit the Edge, he'd wondered? Now, facing down a meadow of moonlit monochrome, it was easy to tell where the bouquet had originated. With each stunted shuffle of readjusted boots (shifting as Ciel turned this way and that, drinking in the view), the otherworldly blossoms were jostled; the velvet perfume of their parted petals perforated the cooling summer air, wafting in the wake of gentle gusts.

"…oh…"

The awed breath escaped the demonling's parted lips without his notice or consent; his feet, likewise, had begun to move on their own accord— arms half-reaching towards Sebastian, who awaited him with a smile (and Ronald's missing laptop, hooked to an unobtrusive speaker) near the most picturesque of the hedges. Behind him, the distant metropolis glittered, adding a nimbus of florescent white to the roseate flush of the innumerable candles which haloed the devil, now lacking a disguise. With some degree of pride, the elder demon had shed his butlery façade; though Ciel's slate-blue feathers continued to decorate his hair, other traditional beads and baubles now accompanied the plumage, adding a feel of ethnic authenticity to the custom. His ears were cuffed by drops of mercury; his forearms and chest were bound in ornamental ribbons of glossy leather. Starched white cotton and trailing black swallowtails had been replaced by a clinging second skin of sleek ebony, ending in boots with heels like pins. As Ciel toddled closer, Sebastian extended a helping hand— careful not to scratch his charge with the tips of recently elongated talons.

"Sebastian, what on earth…?" Practically breathless, speechless, and dazed by disbelief, the diminutive demon finally managed to peel his gawking gaze away from the wonderments around him, instead focusing on that which was truly amazing—the creature before him, devout and devoted. As if his heart was simply not large enough to contain so many impassioned feelings, Ciel could feel Sebastian's interminable adoration lingering in the air— encircling his body and filling him with a tingling warmth. "Sebastian…?"

The devil first answered with a halcyon chuckle, melodiously velvet as it coiled through the twilight.

"When I asked you to marry me…" he then quietly clarified, gingerly guiding his master to a perch directly beside him, "this was rather closer to the ceremony that I had in mind." Chest-to-chest before the shimmering haze of the city, stars, flares, the demon caressed the camber of his charge's cheek with the back of two lithe fingers, savoring the silken sensation of satin skin. As he gazed upon the once-child, Sebastian's ember-hued eyes burned with an inner fire: faceted vermillion gemstones, full of a love more precious than any jewel. And to know that, despite the improbability of it all, that precious love was _his_… it was like the summer sun had vanished from the sky in order to take up permanent residence in the once-earl's ribcage. No wonder his chest suddenly felt so tight… "Something private and special. Something just for you and me. Because that is what this is all about… that is what this has always been about. That is all that has ever mattered— all that will ever matter. You… and me."

A lingering hush, natural in the aftermath of so somber a confession. Sebastian took the opportunity to again stroke Ciel's face, delighting in the grin that played with the pinches of his tamer's coral lips. Ciel, in turn, held that velveteen palm pointedly in place, pressing a kiss to the pink of his calloused flesh. And the music played, and the skylights sparkled, and the other's smile softened in the ruddy dimness of candlelight, the mauve and azure nightfall silhouetting his tender beam. And as this most-romantic of moments harkened to its inevitable climax, Sebastian leaned closer and murmured:

"…do you remember _Star Trek: The Next Generation_?"

Another hush. Perhaps not quite so natural this time, though neither was the silence awkward, per se; Ciel merely leveled his butler an incredulous stare, fingers frozen atop the back of his cupping hand. Star Trek? _Really? _Alone on an impeccably decorated rooftop with his newly-wedded husband and Sebastian wanted to talk about a flamboyant sci-fi show from the early 90s? Why, exactly? And why was Ciel _not_ surprised? Well… you either had to laugh or cry, and after everything else that had happened today, laughter seemed the more appropriate response. Or the better medicine, as it were. So the fledgling allowed himself a husky chuckle, his amusement highlighted by the flutings of exasperated affection. "Of course I do," he then assured, rolling his eyes as he pressed another kiss to the heel of Sebastian's palm. "In '93, I bedecked myself in whipped cream and gave you a Star Fleet insignia pin for your birthday. You nearly wept with happiness. And even if I hadn't remembered before," Ciel continued with a meaningful smirk, allowing his servant's hand to slip from his cheek and instead rethread through his own, "I surely would now. This music… It's from the show, isn't it? Back in the day, you wore out your copy of the soundtrack listening to it over and over again."

"…why, yes. Yes, indeed, I… I did," Sebastian agreed after a startled pause, his burgundy eyes a touch wider in a show of honest amazement. Never having been a fan of the program, the butler hadn't expected his master to recall minutiae as trivial as past displays of nerdiness… But then, he, too, cherished those small, day-to-day details from years gone by; it was heartening to know that he wasn't alone in doing so. An endearing chortle was Ciel's reward for his excellent memory. "And yes, it was. This is the orchestral suite version of the theme to the episode 'The Inner Light.' Did you ever see it…?"

The placid prompt hung idly between them for a spell: patiently waiting as Ciel rifled around in his mind for an answer. He'd certainly caught bits and pieces of a few episodes, over the years, but… As he haltingly shook his head—features contorting in curiosity as he wondered why it would matter, anyway— Sebastian grin's gained teeth, as well as an edge of relief… as if foreknowledge might have spoiled something grand.

"Prior to that particular installment," the doting devil fondly elucidated, looking fleetingly like the fanboy he so vainly pretended not to be, "the character Jean-Luc swore that he had no need of family, children, a home... He saw himself a loner, too strong for any of that. But then— though the events of the episode prove to be nothing more than a dream, he is nevertheless given a taste of such domestic bliss... And he can never let it go." In flagrant emphasis, Sebastian underscored Picard's revelation by holding all the more tightly to the fingers laced with his— his excited eyes as vivid and shining as the nebula of galaxies traversed by the captain in question. "Like the explorer of time and space that he was, Jean-Luc discovered the inner light— the peace, the _joy_ of loving, and of being loved. Of family. Oh, for so many millennia, little one, I was like him... Caring for nothing, for no one, thinking I had no need to love or be loved in return. But then… then I met _you_... And the _entirety_ of my universe changed." Features animated and awed in the wake of so passionate a truth, Sebastian lifted their tangled fists to his chest and held them there, _urgently_, as if his heartbeat might be able to properly portray the earnestness and reverence that his bumbling words could not. Beneath splayed fingers, the powerful thrum of each zealous _throb_ resonated through the earl's palm, his heart, his soul; the sincerity, the openness, the honest adoration of it all painted another blush upon his cheeks, nearly as radiant as the fire-glow. Sebastian's returning smile positively _ached _with affection. "Now," he then continued in an exhilarated rush, as if the miracle of this fact was still enough to leave him in a breathless euphoria, "now, no matter where I am, and no matter where I go, so long as I am with you, baby bird, I am in Paradise. It is… it is a blessing the likes of which I do not deserve. Did not ever think I would be given, considering who and what I am… But perhaps I should have known from that first moment— when you paid me my first compliment, drinking from your cup of warm milk and honey." The murmured musing evoked an airy laugh, as well as a shy shrug; indulging in the elixir of so many suppressed and forgotten memories, Sebastian, too, flushed a pastel pink, trembling as he confessed to far more than ever before. "Cast from Heaven as I was, wandering aimlessly as I did, I was like so many other forsaken peoples... Peoples to whom God had promised an oasis, a land that would flow with milk and honey. And for me, that promised land— that precious place I want to be— …is with you."

Distantly, belatedly, Ciel could hear the music in the background—reprised melodies braiding and swelling into a dramatic crescendo that echoed poignantly through the midsummer night. And if his life were some sort of television show, the young demon might have perceived the perfect timing, the dramatic flair— the way each note accentuated Sebastian's ardent vows… But despite the power of the piece (and of Ronald's amplifiers), the tune had been all but smothered by the rush of heady blood in his ears. By the vivacious song of his heart. By every spoken spirant of sound that fell from Sebastian's beaming lips, pearling like the tears that dewed in the corners of their locked eyes. Through that sudden sheen of moisture, the incandescent wreaths of gold surrounding the tapers seemed to expand, enveloping everything in their shimmering embrace. And maybe it was cheesy to think this, but… right now, staring up at his begirded butler, Ciel found himself marveling that _his _'inner light' had been personified, too, and now stood before him like a prince from a dream. Or from Hell, at the very least.

As if sensing his tamer's tender thoughts, the devil's throat constricted—too full of emotion, of sensation, of sheer _happiness_, to allow for easy whispers. But he continued all the same, crooning the words that he hoped to God and back that Ciel would never, ever, _ever_ forget, regardless of whatever might happen in the future. Because yes, while devils could only speak the truth, not all truths are created equal. And this— this… This was the pinnacle, the epitome, the crux of all that Sebastian believed in and all that he held dear. It was the start, the finish, and everything in between. It was the only thing worth saying, and he would never be able to say it enough… But dammit, he would try. "My baby bird," Sebastian breathed, "my darling little one, my proud and beautiful young master… You are my family, my home, my heaven, my inner light. My _everything_. We will live until the very end of existence, explore the furthest reaches of time and space together, and yet… And yet I _still_ know that I will never be able to express the true depths of my feelings for you. It is, quite frankly, not possible. And maybe… maybe that is why this song feels so perfect to me. Maybe that is why Grelle could never find a proper wedding song for us."

Despite the gravity of his admission, the absolute sincerity in every syllable uttered, a touch of humor gradually dyed the lilt of Sebastian's fervent proclamations; his grin spoke of giggles as he offered one last confession, as sweetly as if spilling a secret. His final secret. "After all, she kept looking at the lyrics, didn't she... and what I feel goes beyond words. Beyond language. Beyond _anything_. Still, for lack of a more eloquent phrase… I love you, Ciel Phantomhive. With every fiber, flake, and filament of my being, I love you. And I will love you eternally."

As the butler's cloying voice and dulcet tones slowly lowered in volume and pitch, so too did his resplendent face—dropping down to meet the delicate knuckles that his hands were deftly lifting to his lips. For a moment, the fledgling—wholly distracted by the lump in his throat— thought little of the gesture, assuming that the sweeping spectacle was merely a familiar, genteel demonstration of ardor. However, when the elegant kiss brushed over the arc of his new wedding band, Ciel found it difficult to ignore the way the ring began to glow: the mist of Sebastian's amorous admission morphing into a scrawled flash of Enochian text, which soon melted into the smooth surface of the ring.

Sensing his beloved's noiseless surprise—feeling a jolt of startled stiffness tensing each of his sinewy muscles— Sebastian glanced up at his master through the lacy mesh of his half-lowered lashes, deviant and sensual. Always one to have fun with Ciel's befuddlement, the rascally creature wasted no time in exacerbating it: applying another kiss to his little one's trembling hand and grinning when his charge gradually realized that this second embrace only birthed sparks within, rather than without.

"It is called animus argentum," the devil then informed, slender fingers lifting to knead the shock from Ciel's thin wrist. "In English, soul silver. It is a rare and expensive alloy, manufactured only in my parents' domain. Fascinating, isn't it…?" Having lowered himself to one knee in order to lavish affection upon his charge, the servant now straightened himself, standing. Still, his eyes remained soft and downcast— the pads of his thumbs burnishing the band as he teased the once-boy with a tutor's grin. With every nimble stroke, the text appeared again, if but briefly; the rounded symbols smoldered in shades of mint green. "In the Middle realm of Earth, silver has been used since ancient times to prevent infection, to keep water potable… A sort of charm of health and longevity, as it were. It is much the same Below, but to a different degree. Animus argentum strengthens nothing corporeal; rather, it empowers the soul. Rings of this sort not only signify a bond between beings— the metal also literally strengthens that bond, helping it to endure, to grow."

Under any other circumstance, Ciel would have been horrified to see how innocuously honest, how openly sincere his expression had become. How his quavering lips had parted; how his sapphire irises shimmered… almost as if he were 10 and human and innocent again. But that hardly mattered. For now, his concern and consideration began and ended with Sebastian, with this ritual, with this priceless ring upon his finger—which, even when untouched, seemed to gleam a faint white. It was almost as if it were alive… or, at least, subsisted on the same heartbeat as a certain lilac brand, carved into his eye like stigmata. "And that script…?" Ciel posed, nearly inaudible, though he was fairly certain that he knew. And indeed, Sebastian's response simply served to confirm his suspicions.

"My name. Well," the butler clarified with a second demonstration of uncharacteristic sheepishness, "my original name. In my mind, I shall forevermore be Sebastian Michaelis… But unfortunately, my essence is still that of the devil Malphas. And in these sorts of ceremonies, it is our essence that is bound… together...?"

Statement faded into question. Volume dwindled in kind.

Brow furrowing faintly, Sebastian watched—notably dumbfounded— as his valiant attempts at explication fell upon pointedly-deaf ears, then morphed into silence. For, rather than pay attention, Ciel had chosen to busy himself by contorting his features in pinched disapproval, head cocked and button nose scrunched. "'Sebastian Michaelis?'" he then echoed blandly, unrepentantly interrupting his servant's faltering explanations. After all, he was addressing the wrong problem; no need to waste time on that. "But you're not Sebastian Michaelis anymore, are you?"

It was his servant's turn to look properly confused. "My lord?" the demon prompted, the old endearment soft with incomprehension. "What're you—?"

"You're Sebastian Phantomhive now."

And with no more warning than this blunt declaration, Ciel lifted Sebastian's willowy hand to his own lips— amused, as always, by how very pliant his lover's joints became when staggered. The blackened flesh of an otherworldly seal shuddered in delightful anticipation… In the wake of additional attachments, already-shared sensations were deliciously heightened, resonating all the more powerfully throughout Ciel. It was gift that he looked forward to further exploring soon. But first, reciprocity was in order…

"Back when you were a servant, back when you were a stranger, it was I who gave you the name Michaelis," the once-earl reminded with a honeyed purr, watching in escalating exhilaration as his cascading breath wafted over the polished ring, staining it an iridescent indigo. Wherever his shallow exhalations landed, loops of lettering temporarily appeared; it looked rather like the ghost of his signature, penned in perfect calligraphy long ago. "It seems only right that I should be the one to change it now, in light of this new covenant."

His eyes flicked upwards, catching Sebastian's. Holding the gaze. Holding his hand. Holding his breath. Holding everything in—every thought, memory, feeling from the past, present, future… for that instant, merely basking, relishing, _savoring_ all of the good and the bad, all that had happened and someday would, all that they were and would be. It was as if, for the briefest of moments, the entirety of the universe opened itself up to Ciel… and his mind expanded, and his soul extended, and he understood. He understood _everything_. And in doing so, knew—knew without any shadow of a doubt—that the one thing worth understanding, worth hurting and fighting and living and dying for, was this. Was _him_, this enigmatic entity who had somehow snuck into his heart and claimed it as his own. This creature who, without even pretending to try, had managed become the only being that Ciel would ever need. His guardian, his family, his friend, his lover… for a time, even his god. With reverence, with intention, without ever once looking away, the little demon allowed these musings to ebb and flow…and then pressed his lips to the enchanted ring, his smile glowing along with ethereal band.

Someone was crying; a single tear fell with a soundless plop, dewing atop a velveteen rose petal. Ciel beamed, lowering Sebastian's arm as he took a ginger step backwards.

"And with this, the Contract is sealed," the younger devil husked, releasing their woven hands with a suggestive little smirk. Yet, while the coquettish irony and playful flirtation of the action was not lost upon Sebastian, his joyful contentment was notably dampened by a resurgence of perplexity. Blinking owlishly, tipping his own head in turn, the elder demon looked on in mild bemusement as his tamer retreated a few steps more, fingers plucking provocatively at twin rows of burnished buttons. "And how appropriate that is…"

"Ciel…?" Uncertain—but in no way discouraging, oh no— Sebastian watched as his young master undid the front of his jacket and shirt, exposing flesh as white as snow… loosening ribbons and laces and hooks and eyes, socks and shorts slipping from sinuous thighs and rounded hips. The suit coat crumpled about his feet with a clatter of heavy embellishments; other garments he tossed aside without a second thought. His vest caught on a whorl of wind and fluttered dangerously close to the ledge, but preoccupied as they were, neither paid it any mind. Instead, their gazes remained glued to Ciel's crimson train, which—with careful, deliberate movements—the not-child was swiftly unpinning, unbuttoning, unfastening. Adroit hands had soon taken the decorative bustle and transformed it into a single swatch of scarlet, much akin to a tarp or a blanket or an altar sheet…

Sebastian's eyes widened. The fledgling unfurled the ruby shroud, wrapping it loosely around his naked body; the vibrancy of the hue handsomely accentuated the china pallor of his lithe limbs, the sensuality of his slight curves. And what with his pale nails, and his azure irises, and the absence of his bitter façade, he nearly looked as he had That Day... Determined, diminutive, desirable. But why—?

He was answered without having to ask.

"Any event which calls us to look towards the future asks us simultaneously to consider the past," Ciel helpfully expounded, the plumage in his hair pirouetting as another fragrant breeze danced through their sanctuary. "To think about what has brought us here, to this point. And this… That Day… that was our beginning, Sebastian. For as much as I once loathed what happened to me, for as much as I hated and cursed, now I… I am thankful for it. Because it is what led me to you." A bashful blush; discomfort etched itself into the camber of his chagrined smile. But still, the little one pressed on, because this was important. Because he needed to say it. Because he wanted to say it. "And so," the once-child persisted gallantly, indulging in a shudder that anyone else (anyone but Sebastian, anyway) might wrongly attribute to chill, "so today… today, as we celebrate this second Covenant, I wanted to wear something to acknowledge our first. It seemed fitting… after all, just as I did That Day, I am, in essence, offering myself to you. Or, should I say… I am finally offering the correct part of myself."

With a lilted laugh, Ciel's small smile— which had been charmingly demure in the wake of shy professions— gained a visible edge of amusement, coaxed into a captivated beam by Sebastian's continued stupefaction. Though one petite hand remained knotted in a fistful of fabric, the other lifted to cup his butler's colored cheek; the sweep of his thumb smeared a bubble of wetness, the remnants of which sparkled like stardust in the guttering candlelight. With an equally caressing glance, the fledgling stepped forward once more—breast meeting breast in a flurry of harmonized heartbeats…

"On that distant Day, hundreds of years ago, I promised you my soul. I never said anything about my heart," the demonling reminded, his whispered words no more than a rush of breath on the scales of a fading symphony. The roses rustled; the mantle did likewise. "So it only seems fair that I should get to keep the former… seeing as you have long-since stolen the latter."

And this time—_this _time— when Ciel tripped urgently closer; when he wrapped an arm around stiff shoulders; when he pushed himself onto his tiptoes and grazed his mouth against his husband's ear… he did not need to revert to avian form in order to say that which they both so yearned to hear.

"_I love you, Sebastian_."

His lips (the words) lingered sweetly, the perfume of his breath mingling with the piquant scent of evening flowers. Even without his supernatural senses, the little demon was confident that he'd have been able to hear Sebastian's heart in that moment: pounding, throbbing, whole chest expanding as it swelled and ached with purest passion. It almost seemed an agonizing experience— features flushed, eyes watering, like the internal pressure brought about by these sensations was too much for any one creature to handle. But as a servant of Phantomhive, it was only natural that the devil should know the cure, whatever the ailment; in this case, that pressure merely needed to be released. And _oh_, did Sebastian release it then— Ciel nearly choked on a wanton moan as (finally!), his demon's lips crashed down upon his own, fevered and fervent: teeth clicking and tongues battling as their mouths worked furiously against one another, the outpouring of emotion draining the pair of the energy required to do such basic tasks as 'remain upright.' But standing was overrated, anyway; the couple allowed their knees to crumple beneath them as their greedy limbs tangled and their mismatched bodies mashed. Heedless of anything but the sound-scent-feel-taste of the other, they tumbled back into the vases of black and white blossoms, the crushed flowers sending glittering puffs of pollen into the sultry summer air…

**9:17 PM**

"That… being said… I do not recall you wearing… a red lace garter… on That Day…"

A breathless chuckle, sonorous and soft; the hollow thud of capsized containers, leaves and petals scattering hither and thither. Though the cushioning foliage managed to muffle the sharpest of undulations, the swish and sweep of billowing drapery made the reality of the situation readily apparent. The raspy echo of a mewled keen further underscored the not-secret, quickly curtained by a heavy sheet of metal.

"Oh...? Are you more for… historical accuracy, then? Well… if you don't like it… help me take it off~"

That was quite enough of that.

As quietly as he was able, Ronald ducked away from the emergency exit, his face turning the same garish hue as the chipped maroon paint that clung to the door. "Congrats, you two," he mumbled with a perturbed cough, scurrying down the stairwell with one hand in his pocket and the other coiled around the rail. What with how fast he was planning to skedaddle, a bar to brace himself on seemed a sensible precaution. Soon, his grunts were drowned out by the reverberating patter of thick rubber-soles on cement. "Consider this your present, since I ain't got the money to buy ya anything els—"

"Well, Ronnie?"

Still a spiraled flight above the redhead, the reaper in question paused in his prattling long enough to look down… and found a whole flock of otherworldly creatures gawking boorishly back at him, waiting to take the party to the next level. Literally. Feathers in her hair and dress slipping from her shoulders, Grelle stood tipsily at the head of the throng, balanced precariously on her own high-heels. She offered a drunken smile (as well as a giggled hiccup) before waving a prompting hand (that landed with a resonant slap upon her husband's rear). Already—and appropriately— wine-red, Will noiselessly yelped, his skewed glasses almost tumbling from his nose. "Is the roof unlocked or not~?"

Ronald, perhaps the only sober soul in the entirety of the complex at this point, wasted no time in shaking his head. "Sorry," he expounded with an easy—albeit apologetic—grin, shoulders rising and falling in a bland shrug. "Must be closed for maintenance or somthin'."

There. A white lie. That was better than a gold-plated prostate massager, right?

Right.

**2:39 AM**

"_Every breath you take_

_Every move you make…_"

"So you found your laptop… but did you ever find Mr. Sebastian and the young master?"

"Nope." With a languid stretch, Ronald shook his head and draped himself over the now-immaculate countertop, relishing the orangey scent of cleaning solution after so much cake and booze. Pillowing his arms beneath his head, he gazed up at the ceiling and gave his feet a musing kick, lips pursing into a thin line when he realized that he hadn't fully tamed the mess quite yet. Frosting had gotten up _there_, too? And had been smeared into the Seal of Solomon? Damn… that had been one intense food fight. Well, he'd save that bit for Will to reach and tidy with his Scythe. "Musta skipped off to the Corn Palace for their honeymoon when no one else was looking."

"_Every bond you break_

_Every step you take_

_I'll be watching you…_"

"Huh." Looking vaguely surprised— but generally unconcerned—, Finny paused mid-sweep, resting his chin atop his broom handle. All across the kitchen floor, flower petals, crinkled confetti, discarded candies, and cake sprinkles had been artfully littered, making the room look strangely like a painting of shattered stained glass. Sebastian would be horrified. But it was nothing a dose of good, old-fashioned housework couldn't fix, and the blonde was determined to give it—and the rest of the house—just that, with or without anyone else's help. Which was convenient, considering that Ron seemed rather comfortable, now, curled beside the stove… and William and Grelle were busily snoring away on the couch, dead to the world. (At least, Finny assumed they were snoring. If not, they'd revved up two chainsaws and were likely hacking away at the upholstery, which wouldn't have been a particularly nice thing to do.) "Well, whatever makes them happy… it _was _their special day. Too bad they didn't have a chance to say goodbye to everyone, though…"

"Oh, I'm sure that was fine with them…" Ronald snorted, sliding his spectacles down the bridge of his nose in order to scrub at his weary eyes. He could hardly blame the couple for taking off; neither was particularly sociable in nature. Hell, they hadn't even wanted a party to begin with—and this one had raged until well-past midnight, even as sloshed angels and plastered demons started dropping like flies. That port of Asmodeus' sure was potent… It might have been legitimately worrisome if any of the lot were able to die from alcohol poisoning or liver damage. As it was, Gabriel had laughed and called up a number of ophanim to escort the inebriated back home, wherever "home" might happen to be. But that had only been around 1. Prior, there'd been limbo (much like the tequila, no one asked where Hannah had pulled the provided pole from), a pole dancing contest (using the same pole, ironically), a fist-fight (which may or may not have ended with a broken lamp and a make-out session), and the most inappropriate version of 'spin the bottle' that the reaper had ever seen. It had been headed by Asmodeus and Alois, of course, who seemed to have adopted one another as a sort of long-lost grandfather/son team; no one wanted to touch the bottle when that game was over.

"_Every single day_

_Every word you say_

_Every game you play_

_Every night you stay…_"

To summarize, then: "we supernatural sure know how to party," Alois had smugly asserted, even as he'd succumbed to a jaw-cracking yawn, snuggling up beside his unconscious brother on the torn loveseat. (Luka had only made it until 10, having "caked" himself into a sugar high, then a subsequent sugar crash. He was still drooling the remnants of buttercream.) "Jello-shots and pin-the-tail-on-Baalberith's-ass all up in this bitch…"

With as dramatic a flair as one dying in Grelle's Brazilian soap operas, the young devil had then proceeded to topple gracefully sideways, a sleepy smile painted upon his deceptively angelic face. (Luka merely grunted as his brother bellyflopped atop him.)

"…_I'll be watching you_."

Seeing as both of their babies were very much asleep—and they had a 6 AM flight to South America to consider— Claude and Hannah took their leave just past midnight, each scooping one slumbering boy into their arms. Undertaker, his effervescing giggling exacerbated by who-knew-how-much campaign, joined Baalberith in cackling as the family departed. Maybe their amusement had been in response to Hannah's awkward and immediate rejection of her pole; she'd seen what'd been done to it—she didn't want it back. Or perhaps they had been laughing at Claude, who'd once again donned his Groucho Marx disguise and had a headful of shimmering confetti bedazzling his hair. But it seemed most likely that the pairs' snorted simpering stemmed from the faltering way in which Claude had opened the door for his companion, growing louder when— with a callow flush pooling in his cheeks— he deliberately brushed his free hand against the back of hers.

Forever a troll, Undertaker cheerily decided to put an end to any more romantic nonsense (they'd had more than enough of it for one evening) by leaping up and capering over to the ungainly demons, pushing himself between them as he draped heavy arms over their shoulders. "Blimey, I can't remember the last time I was groggier~" he hiccupped over their grunts of discontentment, blithely swinging himself from his self-made perch. His grin wriggled and squirmed, as if tickled by the carbonated spirits still fizzling in his throat. "Get it? 'Cause we've been drinkin' grog~!"

In response to his own horrible joke (no wonder he asked for _good_ humor as payment), the reaper giggled shrilly, the gesture all the more annoying knowing that he wasn't nearly as drunk as he was pretending to be. Claude leveled him an irked glare that wasn't nearly so intimidating when decorated by a faux mustache. In fact, it only served to widen the death god's smirk. "Since yer headin' that way, guess I'll have ya take me home, too~"

"_Oh can't you see_

_You belong to me…_"

Sometime after the Trancys departed (hefting the Undertaker along like a sack of snickering potatoes) and the pseudo ophanim taxi service had escorted home the first few rounds of smashed supernaturals, Grelle had—with the same poise and elegance as a one-legged ballerina— swooned atop the sofa with her shoes clutched to her breast. (The logic being, she'd earlier slurred, that no proper lady would be seen without shoes to embellish her outfit, but at the same time her heels were making the world annoyingly tipsy. Will had argued that no, it was the margaritas making the world tipsy, but Grelle's flawless counterpoint had shut him up quite effectively. It was hard to say much, really, when kissing.) Her husband joined her soon after, collapsing atop the cushions as if his knees had been physically knocked out beneath him. For a moment, the death god had seemed enraged by his own body's unwillingness to cooperate— he had a table to man! He must soldier on!— but less than a minute later he had passed out beside his wife, an arm and a leg curled around her as if she were some sort of teddy bear.

"_How my poor heart aches_

_With every step you take…_"

And maybe that was a good thing, all in all. With the couple's deafening snores drowning out the music and the realization that the booze would soon run dry, a number of other entities decided it might be wise to say their adieus. Especially if they wanted to avoid clean-up duties. Beelzebub was the first to head out, muttering something about wanting more Jordan almonds in his goodie bag; Azazel and Gabriel group-hugged Finny, then each other, as they said their merry fare-thee-wells and promised to meet up and jam again sometime in the immediate future. ("Maybe in 130 years, or so?" "Ooo, I'm afraid I'm busy then… how about in 127?") Sabrael next, still clutching his fistful of wilted flowers; then Raphael, then Baalberith, who was still shaking his head over the bouquet-fiasco, as well as a million other little things that everyone ignored. No one was particularly sad to see him go.

"_Every move you make_

_Every vow you break_—"

"Badness me~! That was quite the success, if I do say so myself. Do you not agree, my pet?" Perky boobs swelling as she primed for a happy sort of sigh, Lilith nimbly sashayed over to her beaming husband, reaching out to thread dainty fingers through his own. Asmodeus, acting equally as if he were from some sort of B-rated film, spun Lilith once before pulling her firmly to his bosom, free hand falling upon the licentious curve of her hip. Perfectly poised and pretty, the pair almost looked like Grecian statues, sans the fact that they were (thankfully) wearing clothes. And, well, weren't made of marble.

"Oh, whole-heartedly, my precious one," the devil-king cooed in return, rubbing his nose against his queen's in a surprisingly chaste Eskimo kiss. She giggled and blushed like a schoolgirl; those still present shifted guiltily, hating themselves for being so aroused by such an innocent scene. (Oh, they were a conniving couple, those demons of lust…) "Never before has there been a wedding of such pomp and grandeur. And I rather doubt there shall ever be one again!"

"We can only hope," the caustic Leviathan droned, rolling his eyes as he, too, took his leave.

"_Every smile you fake_

_Every claim you stake_—"

And so it was that the remainder of the guests trickled from the trashed apartment, often with the same, sluggish reluctance as blood coursing through a cholesterol-clogged artery. It was nearly as painful a process, too, by the end; as the only two with their wits still about them, Ronald and Finny were eventually forced to play exorcist, going through closets and bedrooms and bathrooms and asking those discovered there to leave as soon as they'd made themselves presentable. For the most part, this task was serenated by grumpy grumbling and the sheepish rustle of discarded clothes. One of the angels they found, however—trapped in the master bathroom via a chair shoved beneath the outer knob— was only too happy to clear out when located.

"I have a niggling suspicion that Ciel did not particularly want me to be at his wedding," the creature chuckled when asked how he'd managed to get locked in the lavatory in such a creative fashion. He did not seem particularly perturbed by having been held hostage in the toilet, however; rather, he stood from the throne, stretched, and politely asked if either had seen Sabrael around. He then smiled, blessed them, and went on his merry way.

"_I'll be watching you._"

Which brought them back to the present, more or less, where both Ronald and Finny were lounging in the kitchen, side by side atop the counter. The floor was reasonably free of debris, and the table mostly cleared of crumbs… Between his parted knees, the blonde loosely clasped the handle of his broom; the reaper gave up toying with his computer, instead pursuing an equally unproductive course of action: cursing the universe for its mockery. Whatever he tried, he couldn't get iTunes to skip to the next damn song; they were stuck listening to "I'll Be Watching You" on repeat. Perpetual, unending repeat. He couldn't even make his sound controls work. Allowing himself the pleasure of a passing (but justified) Police-related tantrum, Ron growled and chucked his tie across the room, much as he had discarded his suit jacket earlier. (Still asleep atop the couch, the redheaded reaper purred a rather vindicated snore.)

"_Every single day…_"

"…well," Finny hummed after a long, thoughtful pause, wriggling his toes in a pensive manner as he watched Ronald exasperatedly shove away the serenading laptop. "It's still a stalker-song, and a terrible piece to use in a wedding. But…" Musing and amused, the once-gardener twirled his broom handle in between his folded hands, the wispy hiss of agitated bristles nearly inaudible over the music. The shinigami, in turn, looked curiously upon his pondering friend, prompting him with a blink. "But… I dunno. Maybe it's because Mr. Sebastian's parents gave us… um, such affectionate goodbyes… but I can sorta see where Mrs. Grelle is coming from." Finny scrunched in nose, still pink in the wake of an earlier blush. "Kind of."

"_Every word you say…_"

Ronald said nothing for a time, rather busy trying to process Finny's abrupt change of mind. Or heart. Or something. And yes, maybe it _was_ the hormonal aftereffects of Asmodeus and Lilith's sloppy so-long kisses (gifted with a somewhat ironic parting of "good night, and good luck" from the former), but if he thought about it (not _too_ hard, but if he thought about it), he could sort of see it, too. If one could ignore the creepy beat of the base, and the obsessive lilt of the vocalist, and simply consider the lyrics themselves… well, it was still, as the blonde had said, a stalker-song through-and-through. But…

"_Every game you play—_"

Tentative, shifty-eyed, and flustered, Ronald felt himself shuffle a fraction, suddenly a mite too warm. Poised beside his hips, he felt the hands he'd clenched in irritation loosen, slippery with unanticipated perspiration. Huh. That was— …well, maybe not _that_unexpected, but…

Mentally reassuring himself that this was (mostly) the remnants of lust-demon-aura… um, talking (or whatever verb was appropriate there), the death god allowed his slender fingers to cautiously unfurl: brushing, seeking, bumping against Finny's mess-stained thigh. The touch visibly startled the once-boy; he straightened instinctively, as if his spine had been struck by invisible lightning. And maybe that was where his new glow came from… The rosy apple of his cheeks once again taking on a magenta sheen, Finny shot Ronald a bemused glance that the reaper made a concerted effort not to notice. Instead, he deliberately busied himself picking invisible lint from his kneecap, gaze downcast as his face turned a flattering shade of cerise.

"…well," Ronald mumbled after clumsily clearing his throat, still careful to cast his eye on everything _except _Finny, "…if you… like it… I mean, Sebastian and the brat didn't use it, so… Maybe someday, if… um, if you ever get… I mean… It could be a song for you and… er…"

"_Every night you stay—_"

Slowly, adorably, the expression of confusion that had overtaken Finny's childlike features melted into something pink and warm and saccharine. With far more grace and composure than his supposedly-charming companion, the bright-eyed blonde grinned, set aside his broom, and slipped his smaller hand into Ronald's. Instantaneously, that invisible lightning struck again, this time making a target of the death god; the jolt of electricity that raced through and through his body was powerful enough to make the blonde jump, as well. In a pleasurable sort of way. With a final, sidelong glance—lingering just long enough to catch the reaper's poorly-suppressed grin of bashful glee— Finny, too, turned his attention towards the icing-smeared distance, staring off into sweet nothingness with the reaper.

"Maybe someday," he then lightly agreed, closing his eyes as the song played on.

"_I'll be watching you_."

**XXX**


End file.
